


You Don't Frighten Me At All

by 1f_this_be_madness



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Affection, Angry Roger Taylor (Queen), Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Apologies, Band Fic, Banter, Bickering, Brian May is a nerd, Brian Needs a Hug, Can you feel the love tonight because Roger's gonna make sure Brian feels it, Communication, Crying, Cuddling & Snuggling, Deaks drinks a good bit and so does Roger, Declarations Of Love, Don't mess with Brian or Roger will end you, Drinking, Drinking & Talking, Drunkenness, Epic Friendship, Fear of Discovery, Fights, Freddie worries sometimes, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Hot Space Era, Hugs, Hurt, Hurt John Deacon, Hurt/Comfort, I'm sorry guys crap is hitting the fan, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Insecurity, Lack of Communication, Mother Hen Freddie Mercury, Nonverbal Communication, Not gonna descibe in detail cuz that's gross, Past Child Abuse, Platonic Cuddling, Platonic Kissing, Platonic Soulmates, Poor Brian May, Protective Brian May, Reconciliation, Roger Taylor (Queen) Is a Good Friend, Roger also needs hugs, Roger bout to fight, Roger is an attack dog if I've ever seen one, Self Confidence Issues, Singing, Sobbing, Song: Save Me (Queen), Song: Teo Torriatte (Let Us Cling Together), Songwriting, Swearing, Tender Roger Taylor, The lads are going to be all right I promise, The lads have issues to work on, Unnecessary apologies oh look it's Brian's life, Vomiting, Worry, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-10-27 07:15:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 20,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20756450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1f_this_be_madness/pseuds/1f_this_be_madness
Summary: Let us cling together as the years go by, oh my love, my love. In the quiet of the night let our candle always burn; let us never lose the lessons we have learned. - Brian May, 'Teo Torriatte'The members of Queen are a family. They've been together for a good ten years, and have reinvented themselves many times.But sometimes reinvention isn't the most comfortable thing, and certainly isn't the most happy. And sometimes, families fight.(Or, during the recording of theHot Spacestudio album, the boys push each other, and Roger Taylor learns just how far a friend is willing to go for him. And vice versa.)





	1. Chapter 1

Roger Taylor relishes fights. When he can get his point across, that is. That's what he gets into them for, when it's necessary. And it's been necessary sometimes over the years to have a tiff with one of his mates, his band brothers. Hot and short they are, like Roger's bursts of anger, there and gone like a flare of white-hot flame erupting only to be cooled and put out again. He fights for Brian, and Freddie, and John. And he fights against them. 

Never needed, never felt he needed anybody else's protection, though. Not before. 

But now...

Now, Freddie is being irascible. 

They're in the studio working on this ruddy disco album that Roger is already having a tough time handling. As is Brian. Fred and John have put their heads together and taken away the need for Bri's guitar solos, and now, currently Freddie is wanting--he has decided that Roger needs to, he's got to use a drum machine for the club sound that Freddie desires.

Roger groans. "Fuck, Fred, I don't want to do that, it's so unimaginative!"

Freddie tosses his head, all self-important. When did he get to be like this? The drummer wonders. He's afraid it's due to particular hangers-on, one in particular whom he doesn't care to think about just now; no fucking thanks. "Well we're doing it, darling," Freddie says.

Roger scoffs. "What d'you need me for, then?" 

John and Freddie look at each other, and John smacks his lips. "Maybe we don't, Roger."

"WHAT?!" Roger is dumbfounded. His hooded eyes bulge. Did Deaky, HIS Deaky-- "What the fuck'd you say?!" John blinks, maybe about to back off, but Freddie intervenes.

"He's right, Roger, if you can't handle the sound, you shouldn't have to participate in it."

"So what, that's it? You're fucking cutting me out?"

"Sounds like that's what you want."

"Oh, fuck, Fred--"

"How dare you?!" Brian spits now, rising up from his spot in the corner, where he'd taken to standing as the other three work on their club hits. Not needing nor wanting his solos, it seems. Brian feels sick at that thought, that realisation; angry, resentful. But he is livid now on Roger's behalf, and Roger is shocked. He has never seen the guitarist like this.

Brian's eyes are blazing as he shoves off the wall and stalks over to John and Fred, getting between them and Roger, waving a long hand in the drummer's direction. "If you get rid of HIM, you've only half the bloody band! And what is that?! Not us, not our sound. You don't want my solos, fine, but you need an entire actual rhythm section to make a song work. ANY song. You KNOW that, Freddie."

Brian's hazel gaze snaps to catch and hold Freddie's brown one before shifting to John's grey-green. "And you, John--" he snarls. "I've no idea what has gotten into you on this album, if you're on a strange power trip or something..." Brian's brow lowers, furrows, he shakes his head. "But you know what Rogie does. If you're the backbone, he's the heart. If you take him out...," Bri chokes, hand finding and gripping Roger's shoulder as tears spring to his eyes but do not fall. He's got to say this, and has to say it strong. "If you take his drums away, the band dies. It _dies._" The guitarist sniffs, whipping his face between his two friends, his family, even as he feels as if they are splitting apart. He cannot bear it. This gulf stretching between them-- Brian cannot take the thought of this band dying. It's bad enough for him, but Roger too.... Roger doesn't deserve this. Voice soft and nearly breaking now, Brian utters "You would be killing Queen. Can you stand that on your conscience?" Brian glares daggers at John and Freddie both, fist clenching, shoulders heaving. "CAN you?" He repeats.

Freddie's eyes bulge, and John flinches, expressive face flickering through manifold emotions including mulishness and anger, shock and hurt. Neither say a thing to Brian, though, and he's sick of it. Sick of the shouting, the arguments, the squabbles that never seem to end. At least before this they had been productive; ever since their first album, quibbling had HELPED them. Now, here, for this one, however, it is not helping. They are being bogged down by shite, by screaming and by silence, and the guitarist cannot stand it. He puts his arm completely around Roger and shoots the others a hard stare. "Let's go, Rog," he says to his friend. "Clearly we aren't wanted here."

Roger swallows hard, the rims of his eyes reddening as he presses his lips together and shakes back his head, leaning heavily into Brian's side. "Fuck it," the drummer spits out. "You're right." He sees Freddie's eyes widen as the pair of them turn to leave. The singer's lips begin to tremble; John looks like he's about to lift his hand and reach out. But neither man tells them not to go. 

So they go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my lovely readers!
> 
> Again here comes angst. I'm sorry for it, but I got the sharp burst of an idea about Brian taking up for Roger to protect him during an argument, and it wouldn't let me go. Also figured I could try my hand at Hot Space, so do let me know what you think.
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	2. Chapter 2

The inner door of the studio slams, and then the outer one does as well after Brian carefully lifts his coat off its peg. Roger is far less gentle, jerking his faun-coloured jacket so sharply that he nearly rips the coat peg from the wall. They both charge past their producer, Roger slapping at his coat pockets and slinging the garment over one shoulder. Eyes are blurring with furious tears as he shoves through the door, nearly braining Brian with it as the guitarist shrugs into his large canvas-coloured coat, catching the door with one long hand and following the drummer down the hall. His heart is beating hard after what happened in there. 

"Roger--" 

The blond shakes his head, his movements almost frantic as his high voice shrieks, tears out of his throat "No, don't say anything, Bri. Shut the fuck up," and his words, his voice starts coming in wrenching sobs. "Oh, fuck this, fuck me," he moans as they exit the studio building entirely, lifting his soft-cheeked face to the sky. "What the fuck was that?! What are we DOING?"

Roger's garbled shouting, thickened by tears, attracts attention from a few passersby, and Brian does his best to nod at them as he speeds up to walk alongside his friend. He tries to take the drummer's hand, tears prickling at the corners of his own eyes in response to Roger's. "I... don't know," Brian's gentle tone whispers, warm and sweet again, nothing like the ire he'd shown inside. 

Roger snatches his hand away from the touch of Brian's long fingers. His teeth are bared. "And what the FUCK were you doing in there, fighting for me? Protecting me? You've never done it before, and I don't need that, Bri! I can take care of myself, always have. I'm not some pitiful little child, alright?"

Brian feels his heart break, standing here, listening to that. Is that what Roger thinks of him? That he acted in such a way because he thinks Rog can't take care of himself? Because god, no; he wanted to help. He only wanted to help his best friend, to stop the fracturing of the band... "I...was trying to help," he croaks out. "You're always helping me, Rogie. I wanted to do the same for you." _I needed to do the same. Needed to be--to feel useful again, somehow, since I haven't been needed for my playing. Oh, Roger, I'd do anything for you._

"Yeah, well, don't," Roger spat, snapping, and he pushes Brian away with those words, because he can't take this, it's all shite, and--and what if they DO kill the band? The drummer trembles and his chest clenches. He instantly hates himself for speaking this way to Brian, who has slowed down, but still remains beside him, walking with shoulders high and tense, hands shoved deep into his coat's voluminous pockets as his eyes trail along the ground. 

A single tear escapes the corner of one, and the sight makes Roger's heart lurch. He is such a bloody idiot. Such an arse. Brian is so good to him, he was being an amazing friend back there and what had Roger done? Snapped. Shoved him off. And he knows Bri, so he knows the man is going to take this hard. That he is doing so already. Yet he's grateful for what Brian did; he is. He has simply never needed protecting before, he has always been the protector. And now that he's in this position, well, it just...it hurts. 

Oh, how much all of this hurts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Roger's lashing out at Bri because he's in pain, even though his sweet friend doesn't deserve it :'( They are both in such emotional agony, dear men. Of course Rog doesn't mean what he said, and yet Brian is taking it hard....
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	3. Chapter 3

Freddie flinches after the doors slam behind Roger and Brian. His movement is slight, a jerk, a tensing of the singer's shoulder blades, but John notices it nevertheless. "Hey," he says softly, reaching out and resting a gentle hand on his dear friend's back. "We... we can do this, Freddie. You and me. We don't need them if they don't want to be here."

Freddie tenses even more and spins, movements as graceful as ever, to face John. His eyes widen as he takes in the younger man. "Oh, Deaky darling," Freddie says softly. "...I dearly love doing this with you, but I-- I don't want to lose them either."

John shrugs offhandedly. "They'll be back. Roger blows off steam, you know. And Brian--" the bassist's voice hardens a little. "He won't let us 'kill Queen'. He's always going to be around to tell everyone else what to do. Ruddy impossible to work with," John mutters.

Freddie's gaze softens with compassion. "Dear, have you thought of TELLING Brian any of this?"

John blinks. "What? That he's impossible? Roger tells him almost every day."

"Yes, but with Roger it's a bit of banter, darling. For you, if you're honestly upset..."

John expels a sharp breath, waving one pale hand. "He won't listen."

"Why don't you try him?" Freddie's voice is soft. All his stubborn verve is gone, replaced by intensity. He wants to help John. He knows this constant arguing is getting them nowhere. "Brian is one of the gentlest souls I know, and he doesn't like to see people hurting. Especially from something he's done." Taking hold of John's hand and squeezing it affectionately, Freddie adds "Just think about it, about talking to him, John, my love."

John sighs. He grips Freddie's hand back. Knows he is trying to help, he's got the biggest heart. But the way he and Brian interact, John just doesn't think Fred's idea will work. He isn't really good with confrontation. But the dear man is staring at him, begging for an answer with his enormous sweet eyes. "...Okay," he utters quietly, dipping his head. "I will, Fred." 

He'll think about it, for sure. Now as he does, as Freddie smiles at him and relinquishes his hand to begin working, John hears words in his head. Words he could say to Brian, if he dared: _You're so tall, you don't frighten me at all._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, Freddie realised some things after the boys ditched, and John's having a couple of issues. I don't blame him, really; working in close quarters with someone who's a perfectionist--honestly working in close quarters with ANYBODY for about eleven years straight--has got to bring some irritation to the surface, no matter how much two people care about each other.
> 
> I DO blame John for what he's about to do, because I think it's a bit petty. Still love him though.
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	4. Chapter 4

Roger's entire body is trembling with repressed emotions. He is no longer crying, but clenching his jaw, striding as fast as he can along the boulevard away from the recording studio-- fast and far and long away as he can go. He ducks his head, spikes of bright hair ruffling in the wind that comes up. The drummer glances back and sees Brian still keeping pace; well, he's remaining behind Rog, lanky legs faltering a little as the blond glances round, but he keeps coming along. Brian's black curls whip across his face, tug in the wind, and Roger sees the glistening lines of tear tracks tracing the planes of Brian's thin cheeks and drying in the sun and the blowing breeze. Brian bites his lower lip and shades his face, hand shaking as he swipes at his eyes and cheeks. 

Roger's chest twinges painfully as he sees Brian's emotion. He is dying for a smoke, but he stays his hand. Even not talking to Brian, not facing him directly, he knows how much his friend despises smoking. And Bri is out here with him, even as Roger is acting like an arse. He knows he is and yet Brian's still here; he remains by Roger's side anyway.

Roger shudders and sniffs and feels cold fingers curl around his warm ones before a gentle tug has him turning into Brian's chest, his friend automatically pulling Roger close and wrapping his free arm around him. Their fingers remain laced together even as Bri threads the fingers of his other hand through Roger's soft hair. 

Roger squeezes his eyes shut and with a single gulping sob throws caution to the winds and his arms around Brian, letting go of his hand to clutch him around his thin back instead. They stand on the sidewalk together, locked in an embrace, likely in the path of other people, and yet neither one makes any move to shift out of the way or let go. Bollocks to the people, they can walk around, Roger decides. He feels Brian shaking against him now, and the tall man speaks utterly ridiculous words: "I'm sorry, Roger," he says, rubbing his shorter friend's back. "I'm sorry if I... overstepped, back there in the studio, saying what I said for you. I shouldn't have--"

Roger shakes his head against Brian's chest, exhaling sharply. "No, Brian. Don't. Don't do that." Bloody hell. He swallows hard and tips his head back to stare into the guitarist's eyes. This is his best friend who he's known for years, for longer than Roger has known either of his other bandmates. WHAT bandmates? He scoffs to himself now, glowering back along the walk. Of course John and Fred aren't coming after them; they're probably inside giggling over the ruddy drum machine. Bastards. Roger wets his lips and says, voice cracking a little, "You did a top thing, sticking up for me in there. And I'm-- being an arse about it, so. 'M sorry."

Brian's eyes widen as he lowers his head, a tiny smile tugging at the edge of his mouth, mirth smoothing the worry wrinkles in his forehead. "What was that?" Bri whispers, arm wrapping round Roger's shoulders. "Don't think I rightly heard what you just said."

"Ugh, sod off," Roger grumbles, shoving at his friend's chest, but remaining in his embrace. Brian laughs now, wiping at his eyes. "Honestly, mate, thanks." Roger's tone of voice is as serious as the look in his sky-blue eyes. He tugs at Brian's waist, pulling him towards the edge of the sidewalk and a nearby pub. "Now, whaddya say we get a drink?"

Brian sighs. He had been expecting this, nothing less from Rog. But looking into his friend's face and feeling the weight of what has happened today, "...Why not?" The lanky man inquires, letting his friend lead him in. With a cheeky smile that causes him to catch his lower lip with his long teeth, Brian adds "But you're buying."

Normally Roger would whine or retort, but not today. There has already been more than enough of that. Pressing Brian to his side in all his unspoken affection, the diminutive drummer growls as he opens the door of the bar, "Alright, fair enough."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brian and Roger have each other's backs through everything, and their friendship is important to me.
> 
> Reactions appreciated <3


	5. Chapter 5

_Yeah, get back get back --You burn all my energy, criticizing all you see. Analyzing what I say, and you always get your way. Oh yeah! See what you've done to me..._

John is on a roll. After Freddie began his work with the drum machine, telling John to talk to Brian, all the words he wants to say come flooding out of his head and heart and onto a page. Because he's sure Brian and Roger are out there somewhere doing the same. Had stormed out of the studio and are probably sitting in a pub with their heads bent together, talking about him and Freddie....

_Back chat, back chat! It's driving me insane, survival to the end, knock you down, you come again._

Even though disco doesn't need bombastic, self-aggrandizing, absorbing guitar solos. Even though he doesn't play bass, he's always offering some comment to John, some criticism. Bri's darn perfectionism-- it works to give and to get a good sound on the record, sure, but boy does it get on John's nerves.

_Talk back, talk back--you've got me on the rack--twisting ev'ry word I say, wind me up and get your way._

Roger can handle it. He gives back as much as he gets, often gives it first. And he can make Brian smile when he tells him to fuck off: "Oh, I didn't realise yOU spent nineteen years knowing the drums, Brian! Wait, that's right, that's me. I'm the drummer. So shut up and let me do my job." And Brian blinks and backs off. If he comes back again later, Roger laughs off the words. He always has done. 

_Fat chance I have ..._

So does Freddie. He comes back at Brian with wheedling, with pleas. With "Darling, you want too much from yourself, and us." And when that fails he hurls dramatic diatribes: "You expect us to be perfect!" And stalks off. Only now has he done that coldly, spoken his piece and stayed; and he's done it for John. For his happiness. Because dearest Deaky really wanted to make an album like this, as did he. And now

_If I'm ever goin' to win, have to get the last word in. Take it from there._

...Now they've got more songs to write, more work to do. Whether Brian and Roger choose to return or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well John's writing. Is he going to say these things to Brian, or just put them in a song (i.e. 'Back Chat'?) Well, we know at least one of those things happened.
> 
> I appreciate all these boys, and in describing their arguments and potential faults, or what the others find irritating about them, I do not intend to be disrespectful in any way. They're a family, working in close quarters a LOT! I would get irritated too.
> 
> Hope you're enjoying this, comments appreciated <3


	6. Chapter 6

The bar they enter is a long thin one, tucking itself back into the building in which it is housed. Though they're recording far from home, the cacaphony of glasses clinking, the shouts as patrons grow ever more intoxicated and excited over a football game, even the way the bartender leans and listens to some poor bastard spill out all his woes--it is a comfort that any pub in any part of the world has all this and more. 

Roger asks for two ales and they find a not-sticky booth, well, one that is not completely stained by drink-- Brian peers around at all of them for one out of the walkway with decent light. Roger rolls his eyes affectionately and lets Bri do it. Lets him usher them both over, wipe down the table, haul in. He needs to be in charge of something, even something small. 

Their drinks come, and Roger is amazed at how fast Brian's is gone. His pale fingers wrap round the glass and he gulps his beer, not even waiting for condensation to collect before finishing and calling for another. Damn. And Roger thought HE would be the one getting plastered. Well, it's always a good day for a change, he reasons as Brian downs his second drink. At least, a positive change like this-- maybe Bri will loosen up.

He does, his olive cheeks tint red several drinks later and he's talking, louder and louder about something Roger doesn't understand, but his eyes are all moony so it's got to be about either music or animals or space. Roger's had enough alcohol to feel a warm buzz tingling throughout his body, but he's staying behind Brian just in case. The sun is sinking as Brian starts declaiming about whatever it is, and Roger groans "Fuck me, Bri, I just wanted to come in here for a drink, not an oration."

He is messing, of course; he needed a distraction from the shite they're dealing with, and his giant genius friend is providing one. But Brian curls in on himself at that, his eyes dim and his shoulders stiffen. He draws his head into them, as if hiding. No, of course Roger doesn't want to hear this; it's useless information. Like his solos, unnecessary and unwanted. Brian swallows, tamps his exuberance down. "Oh, right, yes." Brian looks down, curls shadowing his face. "I understand, Rogie. Y' don't wanna hear..., that's. That's alright then, go on." Waves for Roger to go order another pint.

Roger stares at him, at the long hand of his friend trembling around his beer glass, the brightness in his eyes that's slowly leeching away now, and the drummer curses himself. Fuck it, his drinking can wait. Brian needs him to listen, needs someone to listen. Roger throws himself back into their booth and huddles up beside his lanky friend. "Alright, all right, go on and regale me with your newest fascinating tidbit, Bri."

Brian swallows, eyes flickering. He tries to smile, but is worried that Roger is doing this just to humor him, and he can't bear that. Can't bear the thought of being pitied, being nothing; of his thoughts being boring, just as he can't take the thought that his presence isn't necessary, that his playing is useless. Or that Roger's is. Brian ducks his head, folding up as his eyes widen, darken in agony.

Shit. "No, no, damn it, Brian, it's interesting, I just wasn't prepared, but now I am. Come on, mate, I'm all ears." Roger widens his eyes and cups a hand round one ear cheekily, but his next gesture is all sweetness as he takes Brian's closer hand and folds his fingers over it, bringing it to his lips and then tucking those long fingers beneath his chin. Forcing Brian to face him, to see the honest interest in Roger's bright gaze, to know his friend really truly wants to hear this. Whatever it is that Brian wants to say.

Brian softens, his eyes crinkling, shoulders relaxing as he moves his fingers to take Roger's face in his hand. He's still buzzing a little from the drink, and feels like he's slowly filling up with light from his dear friend's affection. He swallows, wets his lips, and strokes Roger's plump cheek with one thumb as he tips his head in and down, midnight curls brushing the other man's forehead. Roger blinks, lips slightly parted as he listens, waiting expectantly for Brian to speak. And Brian does. 

"Okay, Rog," he says, and before he can stop himself he moves over the rest of the way, wrapping himself round Roger and enveloping him in an embrace. Lips press to Rog's cheek in a swift, gentle, thankful kiss before he shifts back and begins declaiming again about life here connected to the cosmos, to the loneliness of Space and of their current states that is --that are-- mitigated by the joy of creation. And failing that, of being together here and now. "We've got each other, whatever happens, the two of us," Brian croaks, his hazel gaze growing melancholy, unsure, even as he holds Roger close in all of his desperate affection. His sweet tone grows infinitesimal, barely audible as it shakes: "We do, right?"

Roger's eyes are soft as he leans into his friend. Brian's arm remains wrapped around him as they snuggle in the back of their booth, beers forgotten. Roger nuzzles his head into Brian's chest as his high voice growls against Bri's skin, the bare strip he always shows; proving Roger's sincerity through sound AND feeling, the drummer hopes. "Course we do, Bri," the blond man murmurs. He rears back, shaking his hair away from his face and wetting his lips as his hooded blue eyes stare solemnly into Brian's. His next words are a promise, one made to Brian and to their band as well: "I'm not fucking going anywhere."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Roger is stubborn and determined and Brian is an insecure sweet nerd. What else is new? ;P
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	7. Chapter 7

Brian May is officially intoxicated.

He doesn't get like this much at all, not after his sojourn with the brothers Van Halen gave him a bump on the head and an embarrassing, obvious bandage to wear during a subsequent concert. Roger had laughed, Freddie'd gotten all prissy over it, shaken his head-- "However shall I do your makeup, darling?" He lamented. And John had looked at Brian with something in his eyes, an expression that Bri couldn't discern or fathom. Deaks is like that.

Which is part of the issue with what is happening here and now. John doesn't want him to play for reasons Bri doesn't quite know--he has even done some of the guitar tracks on this album himself. To prove he can do it, perhaps; and it's cutting Brian out and now Freddie's telling Roger they're going to begin using a drum machine and John's saying they don't need him. And that's-- Brian sways, feeling like the world is tilting on its axis, feels his thoughts slipping away, like soap bubbles rising and popping in the air before him. He cannot stand and then feels hands put his coat over his shoulders, arms through sleeves, before a hot bar of something grips him by the waist. 

He lets out an exclamation that is far louder than it would normally be, and instantly apologises for his drunken state. An amused voice accompanies a tightening of the warm grip around his waist. "Yeah, you're drunk as a skunk, well deduced, genius." Brian flops his head round and looks down to see Roger, dear Roger looking up at him, blue gaze sparking with laughter. His soft cheeks are a trifle flushed, but he is steady. "I got you, Bri," he says now. High voice catches a little as he adds "Let's go home."

Home. That word slices through the haziness in Brian's brain, and he continues swaying as Roger pays for their final round, the drinks which have all been Brian's; Rog just had two beers and quit while he was ahead. For once. They go out into the chill of the night, heading back along the boulevard, and Brian starts shaking even in his gigantic coat. "Where?" He croaks to Roger as the shorter man hangs on. Brian drops his arm around his friend's shoulders and slurs "My home's wi' you, Rog. Wherever you are, since Fred an' John don't want me...," His voice squeaks as again his eyes fill with tears that start dripping. "Since I'm nothing."

"Oh, bollocks, Brian," Roger snaps. "They're just being fucking morons right now. You're something, your playing is everything--and they will see that again or I'll fuckin MAKE them!" The blond man clenches his hand that isn't holding his lanky mate upright into a fist, eyes blazing with fury. The others are still in the studio right now, and damn it, he's going to make them listen. Brian doesn't deserve to feel like this. And as much enjoyment Roger is getting out of it and the aftermath, drinking so much is not like Brian. He is really hurting.

And he hurts even more once they get back in.

The producer looks up as the pair step into the space with soundboard and equipment, and something in his expression is apologetic. Something Roger doesn't figure out until he leads Brian to a chair and focuses on the sound in the recording booth after Bri unsteadily sits down, long hand sliding across the back of the chair, almost missing its edge before Roger takes hold of his narrow hips and plunks him down. "There, stay, Brian," he growls, and knows the man is truly plastered. 

Instead of arguing that he isn't a dog, Brian's eyes catch Roger's with such warmth and affection in them, magnified by his tears. His soft tone breaks as he whispers "'Kay, Rogie. Thank you."

The drummer reaches out and wipes tears from his friend's cheek. "Bri, you're drunk, but fine. You're welcome, alright?"

"I mean it," Brian is slurring, almost whining, as his eyes close when he feels Roger's rough-skinned but gentle touch on his face. He sways into Roger's side, beaming at him. "I love you, Roger."

Roger's face and body feels warm and his heart leaps to hear those words from Brian, especially now. He growls "I love you too, Bri, but don't go on about it, will ya?" He nods to the studio session, where Freddie's sultry tones are crooning. "Let's shut up and listen to Freddie." Brian nods, leaning in, resting himself against Roger like a little child. Roger wraps his arm around Brian, feeling that he could burst with affection, but he tamps it down. Roger Taylor doesn't get all mushy from emotion. He focuses on listening, and Brian, even in his current state, does too.

He regrets doing so once he hears Freddie's words, however.

_"... Twisting ev'ry word I say, huh! Wind me up and let me play. Back chat, back chat, you burn all my energy-- Back chat, back chat. Criticizing all you see-- Back chat, back chat. Analyzing what I say  
Back chat, back chat-- and you always get your way!"_

Brian and Roger look at each other, hearing the drum machine being used, and they see Freddie gyrating round as usual, though something in his eyes is different, almost hesitant. 

It is John's face that tips them off, the stolid stare. A satisfied smirk that lifts his lips at a few of Freddie's words as he moves his fingers across the strings of his bass for that thumping club sound. The sound Roger hates. Brian begins to feel sick to his stomach as he listens past the buzzing in his ears, which is draining away the more he hears. 

"That little bastard," Roger whispers, shaking his head in awed disgust as he puts something together. Something Brian has not figured for sure yet, but he bets he would if he had all his faculties.

_"Come on now wake up, stand up and drag yourself on out! Get down, get ready, scream and shout! Back off me, be cool, and learn to change your ways-- 'cause you're talking in your sleep and you're walking in a daze...,"_

The guitarist goes cold. He's been told he talks in his sleep, ever since he was a child. The band knows that and has commented on it once or twice. Roger's teased, of course. But it has never been spoken of this way before.

_"Don't push your luck, I'm ready to attack 'cause when I'm trying to talk to you, all you do is just talk back!"_

And then, the kicker, as John's eyes look through the window, seeing Roger's furious and shocked gaze, and Brian's bleary but nevertheless hurt one. At least he knows, the bassist thinks. He's being forced to listen. He's here. So why is John's chest seizing up right now?

_"You stand so tall, you don't frighten me at all. Don't talk back, don't talk back, don't talk back just leave me alone!"_

John wants that, needs that. All right. Brian looks down, bile rising into his throat, sweat congealing on his face; for once in his life he feels hot. Too hot. His muscles are clenching, stomach is roiling. He feels sick as he hears Freddie say the words:

_"And you always get your way, yes you do. Yes you do baby...."_

At that lyric, Brian cannot take any more. He shoots to his feet, eyes bulging as he whirls. Roger has stood up too, to steady him. "Rog," the tall man gasps. "Roger, I think I'm gonna be sick."

The blond man's eyes are full of understanding and sympathy and fury on his mate's behalf as he runs a hand up and down Brian's arm. "Mate, I don't blame you," Roger says quietly. "That crossed every fucking line--" At the expression on Brian's face and how sweaty and pale he has become, the drummer ceases speaking, turns, and picks up the nearest garbage can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well Brian is drunk and that...that isn't something anybody wants to hear, drunk OR sober. Dammit John! How's Deaky going to make up for this one?
> 
> * not after his sojourn with the brothers Van Halen = I learned that Brian apparently slipped and hit his head in a bar bathroom whilst out drinking with Van Halen and as such had to wear a bandage on his forehead for the concert performance Queen had next day...
> 
> *The sound Roger hates. = From an interview with Brian and an article in LIFE Magazine, it's clear that Roger didn't like Queen sounding like a club band, the music that would be played in dance clubs, for example. Well, didn't seem to be Roger's style. Or Brian's, for that matter. Which I can understand. 
> 
> I really hope this doesn't make people hate John, because I don't. I think some people don't confront their issues with others in the best ways, and Deaks is about to figure that out when Roger gets a hold of him (there's a reason your chest is seizing up, John, it's called feeling guilty!)
> 
> Reactions appreciated <3


	8. Chapter 8

Brian grabs the garbage bin and heaves into it, shoulders wrenched and shuddering as he bows his head and feels terrible. Ashamed for this, and so hurt by the song. Those words are from Deaky, he can tell, and yet Freddie was singing them. Why, why hadn't they just told him? "You're being too persnickety, Brian, back off." He gets that from Roger. Roger...

Roger's warm hand is on Brian's back right now, and then both of them are grasping Brian's hair, pulling the curls up out of his face as he heaves again and spits, wiping a shaking hand across his lips and groaning. The guitarist wobbles and drops the can, trying to set it down. Roger lunges for him to catch Brian, and the tall man lets out a squeak as he sees the bin fall, sure his sick will now paper the walls and coat the floor.

But strong hands grasp the bin, and Brian is looking into Freddie's eyes. He cannot bear the sweetness in them, feels sick again as Freddie asks "Are you alright, Brian, darling?" Chokes, turns his face away, closes his eyes. Sways and feels tears threatening again. Don't cry, don't cry, come on Brian--

"What the fuck kind of question is that, Fred?!" Riger snarls, his hand still holding Brian's hair back, the other clutching his tall friend's side. John's standing there too, eyes lowered, at least. But still the gall, the utter gall-- "Why WOULD he be all right after that? And fuck you for writing it, by the way," Roger snarls at Deaky, blond hair whipping as he turns his head sharply to look in John's face. The bassist flinches. "Yeah, I know your songwriting style, John. And what a shitty thing to use your talent for." The drummer's voice is shaking as he looks back at Freddie, whose brown eyes are huge. "--Both of you."

The singer and bassist look at each other and back at the other two men. Seeming to wilt and soften, maybe even preparing to apologise. 

"Brian,"

"Roger dear--"

But Brian's body wrenches again and he makes another heaving sound as he gasps "Roger," and the blond snatches the bin from Freddie, holding it up to Brian's face as his body rebels and again he throws up.

"I'm taking him to bed," Roger spat, holding Brian tight. "And we're fucking talking about this again when he's sober-- only if he wants to." The drummer's eyes are hooded, depths full of concern for Brian as well as anger. He doesn't even give a fuck about his drums anymore. Not right now. His Brian needs him. "Oh and we're taking this," he lifts the bin. "C'mon Bri, let's get you to the hotel, mate." With a last glance back at John and Fred, the blond blinks, eyes filling as he shakes his head. "How could you?!" he asks, high voice wobbling in sorrow and fury. "How could you fucking do this to my, to _your_ best friend?" _Your family. We're supposed to be a family._

Roger yanks the door open and ushers Brian out of it before either John or Freddie can respond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Brian. Roger's got him, honestly Freddie and John are lucky that he's having to hold Bri up because otherwise there would be some flying fists....
> 
> I honestly thought this was gonna be ten chapters guys, but the boys are lengthening it because they need each other
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	9. Chapter 9

Roger is seething as he heads with Brian back to their hotel. Not in the least because of what they'd just been forced to listen to, but also because every taxicab he tries to hail takes one look at Brian's pale form and his sick-filled trash bin and drives on. Bastards. "He's not going to puke in your blasted cars, you imbeciles!" The drummer hollers after the fourth cab that passes. "Besides it's not even a NICE car! Machine of a dream, yeah right--a nightmare, more like." He snorts with amused acerbity at his own joke and then receives a wavering moan from Brian. "Hey, hey, I've got you, Bri." He reaches out and grasps the other's opposite hip, holding him upright as he makes an executive decision to walk to their hotel.

Brian is feeling like hell and hating it. Couldn't even come up with words for John and Fred--he'd had a couple ideas, but couldn't force them through his hazy brain and besides, the only things coming from his mouth at this point are viscous fluids. Everything about this is awful. He feels so weak now, and helpless. Useless and terrible. Wants to curl up in a ball and hide from the rest of the world. All but Roger, because he knows this vehemently stubborn and loyal man is not going to stand for Bri shutting himself away. No matter how much Brian wishes he would.

The pounding of his feet on the cement shakes Brian to his core as the words of that song had. Does he truly always get his way during arguments? He knows he's stubborn, and wants to work the sound in a certain manner, but that is only to make the band BETTER. And they'd be better if they weren't doing disco... Ah. God, that's it. That's what he's done. He hates disco, so now John hates him. Brian stumbles, falters. Of course, that's it. Why else would Deaks write such things? He's willing to fight, he wants Brian to leave him alone.... The guitarist stumbles then, and Roger tightens his hold on him. Dear Roger. He shouldn't be around Brian, whose negative energy is bringing them down. Rog can still put in the work, though they're doing the club sound. Brian can put in a word to Fred, and John loves Roger. Despite what he said earlier today. If Roger wants back in, they'll let him come, Brian is certain of that fact. Him, on the other hand--

"For fuck's sake, Brian, your self-loathing logic is giving me a headache. Will you please shut up with that?" Brian startles. He hadn't realised he was speaking aloud, mumbling in his intoxicated state so that Roger can hear. "--For the record, I don't get my socks knocked off by disco either, mate. And I'm not fucking doing this without you." He squeezes Brian's side as his high voice wobbles. "I've said it before, we're a family. And Deaks doesn't hate you, Bri. He's just being a dumb shite at the moment, and I'm going to tell him so." Another round of shaking from Brian makes Roger's eyes narrow in concern. "What is it? D'you need to stop, are you going to be sick again?"

"No," Brian whimpers, eyes full of tears. He cannot handle any of this, especially Roger being so kind. He doesn't deserve it. "No, Rogie, I'm fine now. I--oh, god...," Brian ducks his head, voice squeaking and trembling as his whole body does. "I just--I-I've been awful, I don't deserve you...."

Oh, no. "Brian--" Roger feels helpless in the face of his friend's emotions. Luckily they've reached the hotel at last, and Roger clutches Brian tight as he opens the door, nodding to the receptionist and practically running in. His grip is like a vise, because he feels Brian slipping away from him in thought and emotion right now, and he can't bear the thought of physically letting his friend go. "Just hang on, mate," Roger speaks desperately. "Here, give me your room key." For a second, a brief horrible second, Roger is sure Brian won't; that he'll either camp in the hall or Roger will have to drag him into the drummer's room and risk having him shut down. He cannot take that, not now. _Come on, Brian, please. Please don't. Don't leave me._

Brian swallows hard, seeing Roger's wobbling hand, the expression in his eyes, almost begging, growing broken. The guitarist cannot stomach causing that in bright, buoyant Roger Taylor. Even as he's grown ever more irascible and annoys Brian to no end. His sight blurring, Brian withdraws his key from a pocket, hand shaking so badly he almost drops it. But warm hands catch the key and hold his hand, and Roger stops at Bri's door and unlocks it, sending him in ahead and closing the door behind them. He flips the lock over as Brian stares at him, and stubbornly shakes his head. 

"Fuck it, don't look at me like that--I'm not leaving you like this, Brian. I'm not leaving ever, but especially not like this." The tall man stands, wavering, eyes huge and pitiful and full of tears as Roger takes charge. "Let's put this bin down and get you out of your coat, yeah?" Brian bites his lip enough to bleed and crumples, shaking. He lets out a wail. Roger feels like his heart is going to break. "Oh, Bri,"

"No," Brian moans, sinking to his knees, one hand gripping the edge of the blankets on his bed as he closes his eyes tight. "You should...you ought to hate me, Roger. Look what I've done to the band." He sets the bin down with a _CLUNK_ and buries his face in his hands, shuddering so violently his curls tremble like black waves in a storm. "I'm sorry. God, Rogie, I'm so sorry."

Roger's chest feels like a sword has been stabbed right through it. "Brian, no." He drops to his knees before his friend, taking Brian's face in his hands. "You have nothing to be sorry for, alright? Look at me. LOOK at me!" Dragging Bri's chin up and staring into his eyes, smoothing hair out of his face, Roger croaks "You haven't done anything to the band. Deaky was an arse, alright? So was Fred. And we're going to talk about it, but right now you need to brush your teeth and get in bed. Stop this fucking madness," he strips off Brian's coat, chucking it over a chair, and starts shakily on his shirt buttons. "And shut the fuck up with your crap about us hating you, that's bollocks. We don't. _I_ don't. And I know John doesn't, even if he's being a right bastard." Having unbuttoned Brian's collared shirt, Roger tugs it off his friend and rises, striding to and jerking open the closet, hanging it and then his coat before going back. "Up you get; out of those clogs right now." He tugs Brian into the bathroom, its door low enough his curls and head brush the lintel. "Sorry-- here." Roger turns on the water and waves at his tall friend's toiletries. "Brush your bloody teeth. Don't make me do it for you." He stomps out the bathroom door and jerks open a drawer to find Bri a soft pair of shorts to wear.

Brian does as he's bid, still feeling weak and cold, and tired. So tired. But after he rinses and spits toothpaste he feels a warm hand at his elbow and "Here," Roger offers a pair of joggers to him. Brian looks at them and back at Rog as the drummer offers to leave, but he's so drained he doesn't care about modesty and drops his pants right there, stepping out of them and pulling on the shorts. Roger blinks and almost grins, would say something cheeky any other day, but now is not the time. He swallows and wets a washcloth instead, murmuring "Here, Brian," as he lifts it to wipe his friend's face clean of the tracks of salt from all his tears.

Brian shuts his eyes, no longer trembling quite so much as the cool cloth rubs under his eyes, across his cheeks and forehead. Roger even strokes it over his closed eyelids, causing pinpricks of light and colour to burst behind them. Lastly he wipes the back of Brian's neck and Bri gasps a bit at the damp chilliness before he hears Roger wring out the rest of the damp and growl "C'mon Brian, let's get you to bed," as he shuts off the light in the loo.

Bri lets Roger lead him to and turn down the bed, almost smiling as Roger jerks on the sheets impatiently. He swallows as he sits and slings his lengthy legs under the covers, wondering how Roger stands him in all his ridiculousness and contradictions, because now he wants, aches for his friend to stay. He looks over at Roger in the dark, but doesn't need to say anything for the other man to understand. Shrugging out of his jacket and shirt and jeans, Roger turns off the main light in the room before leaping into Brian's bed with him, pulling the lean man into his chest and wrapping both arms around him. Brian buries his head into Roger's neck. "Thank you," he mumbles gratefully into the other's skin. He still feels awful, but Roger is here with him anyway. Which isn't awful at all.

Roger strokes Brian's hair gently, fingers threading through his curls as the giant's body slowly relaxes into his. "Oh, shut up," Roger whispers, pressing a kiss to the top of Brian's head. Voice thickening with emotion even as he tries to stop it, or at least hide it, Roger's next words are low and sweet: "You know I've got you, Bri. I love you, and I'm not leaving." _Not ever. No matter what._

Who gives a fuck about the band, they're family without it. And that's a fact.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Roger's taking care of Brian--who is feeling absolutely awful, poor guy D':  
And Rog cares enough that he wasn't even swearing by the end! Progress, yay! (also Tender Roger Taylor definitely needs to become a tag). If anyone was to think to listen to 'Tender Is The Night' by Jackson Browne whilst reading this chapter I wouldn't be upset at all because I totally thought of it :P
> 
> Next chapter John and Freddie will be feeling some things too. (I love you both but you were really being dumb bastards back there)
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	10. Chapter 10

Freddie Mercury feels awful.

He does not even want to go out to deal with the pain or to will it away, doing things for others to help ease his own guilt. No; the others he needs to do something for are likely not in any mood (or physical state) to talk to him. Certainly not, as Roger's last words before he took Brian back to the hotel indicated.

Freddie's heart lurches. He just wants everyone to be happy. He felt as though his friends were slipping away, that he was fading into the shadows-- Bri and Rog have both done successful solo albums and can play multiple instruments. They don't appear to need him. 

But Deaky does. John wants Freddie's help and input, and he doesn't sing, so he needs Fred for that. To be his voice. Even though this most recent case of being a voice had, well, not gone as hoped for. Freddie sighs as he busies his hands in wrapping up mic cords and folding up stands. Roger would have laughed it off if the song had been written about him; Freddie can already hear the pealing laughter and the "well fuck you too, Johnny!" that Roger would crow. Either that or he'd get mulish and throw drumsticks til he thought of an equally disparaging lyric to get John back, and everything would be all right. Again Freddie's chest twinges. But Roger is not Brian.

Dear Brian, who so often feels low even when he's forming his stupendous guitar solos. Even after the most glorious performances, dear Brimi gets to feeling lonely. He goes into dark places, and Freddie shivers with self-disgust as he looks round at the walls, feeling the claustrophobic nature of this place, the lack of clear air vented properly. He'd been watching Bri slipping away here, had let himself be talked out of including Brian's solos because perhaps a break would calm his whirling mind, ease his worries. And John's been happy to do some guitar bits. But no; Fred was kidding himself. Brian was already hurting, and this song only made his hurts worse. They think it ought to be called 'Back Chat' because, well, its lyrics state such. The irony in that stings, as the singer glances over at his dear bassist without words. 

John looks up, eyes catching Freddie's as his pale fingers tremble on the case of his bass guitar. He cannot stop seeing another pair of eyes looking just as wrecked and pitiful. A bleary hazel gaze alongside a furious blue one. Roger's words, Brian bending away, shutting down. Sure, from drinking, but even that is a red flag. Brian isn't like John; he thinks too much alcohol numbs him and slows his brain. He doesn't appreciate the feeling of lowering inhibitions, doesn't want to quote lose his mind. The bassist sighs at that, shakes his head. Such a Brian thing to say, but he should have known it wasn't self-important. None of what Brian does is because he feels as if he is better, knows better. He just wants things to be _right_. Deep down, Deacon knows that. Has always known it, and he'd gone too far. Chest still seizing up, he also knows one reason that he's so angry with Brian, a reason he wrote this song, that he'd taken his feelings so far. It is because he is jealous. Jealous of how much the guitarist seems to know, always; his ideas though irritating in their execution, they WORK. He is so close to Rog and to Freddie, he knows what they need. So why doesn't he see what John needs? Encouragement, kindness, space? 

It's because John doesn't tell him. The bassist answers his own question. He doesn't speak up loud like Roger or quietly soothe like Freddie. He keeps everything in, for better or worse, til it explodes out in a song like this. Til he goes to and past the edge and cannot take it anymore. Which is not a good way to be. And yet they are all on-edge here in this space, it's not just him or Brian; the bassist reasons. They're all drifting away. He feels his stomach lurch now as he wonders if this had been enough, had this song been the thing to break them apart for good? Has he effectively killed Queen? Oh, no-- no, please; John's body shakes. He cannot bear the thought after everything; these four people are Queen. They've got to be. Got to stay that way. He has to apologise. 

"Freddie--" John's soft voice breaks as he lifts up his head, and his dear singer is already there, strong arms hugging John tight as John's face falls into Fred's broad shoulder. Tears begin to trickle down his face and soak the other man's shirt as Freddie's arms tighten and he does his best to soothe John, who now whimpers "I've really screwed this up, haven't I? Oh, goodness, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

The singer shakes his head, fingers stroking John's soft curls as the dear man shudders against him. "No, Deaky my dear," Fred's hands grip his shoulders and at last pull back to look into John's face, his dark eyes holding the other man's light ones. "We BOTH cocked this up, and we're going to fix it and apologise. Together, alright?" 

John sniffles and swipes the backs of his hands across both cheeks as he continues shuddering over his own cruelty and stupidity. His voice cracks and breaks as he agrees with Freddie. Knows he most certainly has to say he's sorry, whether Brian forgives him or not. And he's got to ask Roger back, beg for his drums--the machine hasn't got his unique and lovely sound. No verve involved. And even in his stubbornness and issues, assorted emotions, feeling jealous and unheard, John swallows a sob. He's going to do this. To talk, to apologise. They both will. Once Brian is sober. "...Okay, Fred."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John and Freddie both know what they've done. Gonna think some more about it, and maybe get Brian and Rog to listen to their apologies. Will it work? Who knows
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	11. Chapter 11

Next morning, Brian cracks his eyes open and groans. His face is smashed into a pillow, curls in a frizzy tangle. Long bare arms are wrapped around the pillow's sides, and his head is throbbing, pounding like Roger's bass drum, and the ache from sharp movement or bright light is the pedal, walloping his head with intermittent strikes of agony. Ugh. He shouldn't drink like that.

Shifting his back, Brian feels a warm length move away from its resting spot upon his waist and hears a high noise. Again Brian groans in pain as he tips his head to rest one cheek on the pillow instead and sees Roger beside him. His friend's tufty blond hair is a mess, and his mouth hangs slightly open. Even in agony Brian smiles as the other man automatically moves closer. He snorts a little as Roger's blond head buries itself into his chest, having first grazed the edges of Bri's curls. God, the guitarist envies his mate's sound sleep. Even slight movement hurts Bri's head and he squeezes both eyes shut, lifting a hand to massage his temples and rolling onto his back again. 

Movements jostle Rog and the drummer stretches, exhaled breath hissing from his nostrils and sky-blue eyes fluttering open. "Morning, Bri," Roger murmurs, tone of voice incredibly soft and gentle, a balm to Brian's pounding head and whirling brain. Rog reaches out and rubs Brian's arm. "How're you feeling, mate?"

"I've been better," Brian mutters back and Rog rolls over, letting out a bark of laughter that makes the taller man wince. 

Instantly Rog is all gentleness again, stroking back the guitarist's hair before patting him on the arm and bouncing upright. Pads into the bathroom and Brian hears water running and stopping before his friend comes back with a wet washrag that he drapes across Bri's forehead with deft fingers, tucking the ends under Bri's hair and behind his ears to keep the cloth in place. "That feel alright?" He asks. Brian nods. "Okay, I'm going to grab some coffee and food. Something greasy will help you out."

Brian's body tenses, his eyes bulge. "Oh, no, Roger--"

"Oh no nothing, Brian. Trust me, it'll help. Here." He takes up one of the drinking glasses always present in hotel rooms and fills it with water by using the sink again. "Drink this. I'll be right back."

Slowly Brian sits up as Roger hands over the glass, their hands meeting. "Thank you, Roger," Brian whispers, hair obscuring part of his face, but not enough to hide his immense gratitude. "Honestly, thank you so much."

"A 'course," Roger huffs fondly, stroking Bri's frizzy curls. "I mean SOMEBODY'S gotta take care of your lanky drunken arse and getcha on your feet now you're sober. Which I'm gonna do soon's I get food in ya, so prepare yourself." Roger steps into his jeans from last night and picks up Brian's shirt as he can't for the life of him remember where he'd tossed his own. The sleeves are way too long, but he manages to button the front halfway before picking up Brian's spare key and opening the door. He pulls the door to as he exits, ensuring that it doesn't slam, and comes face-to-face with Freddie in the hall. 

Freddie's eyes are exhausted, his cheeks almost look hollow, and his eyes have dark circles underneath them. Hair is mussed and he has none of his typical put-together fashionable frivolity. Freddie wears a dark robe, understated, with shorts and Adidas. Appears cold, sorrowful, diminished. "Roger dear, good morning." Freddie intones softly, shifting his head to indicate Brian's closed door in front of which the drummer is solidly standing. "Is Brian awake as of yet?"

Roger smacks his lips and cuts his eyes at Freddie. How long has he been out here? "Maybe, but you aren't getting in til I'm back in there," the blond snaps. His voice hardens. "What're you gonna do, anyway? Apologise? Say you're worried about him? Well it's a bit fucking late for you to decide to be worried, Fred. And I don't see Deaky out here offering up HIS apologies! He should prostrate himself on his knees in front of Brian, the petty arsehole!"

Freddie flinches at the vitriol in Roger's voice. "He's still asleep," the singer says. "He feels so badly that he stayed over with me all night, and I couldn't rest because--"

"--because you figured out what arseholes you both were being?" Roger spits. "Well boo-fucking-hoo, Freddie-- you figured it out and ya didn't sleep. D'you know what you did to Brian?" The drummer lifts his chin and steps into Freddie's space, eyes flashing dangerously. "What JOHN did?!" Roger shoves the centre of Freddie's chest with the tips of his fingers, pushing him back. "He thinks you both hate him, that he's not worth anything and he's fucked up the band." Freddie flinches as Roger's voice trembles on those words, the singer's deep brown eyes widening and filling with anguish. "Yeah, you hurt him, and I'm not gonna make him see you unless he WANTS to fucking see you. So until then, sod off." Roger shoves past Freddie now, heading to the lift and the stairs to get sustenance and coffee. 

"Oh, and when you get back in there," Roger calls over his shoulder as Freddie shuffles, staggers back to the door of his room: "--wake John's arse up and tell him to grow a pair from me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Roger isn't playing around, he's going to take care of Brian's hangover and he isn't letting anything else go down till Bri is ready. I feel like Attack Dog Rog is a very real phenomenon :P 
> 
> I do feel badly for Freddie, but I'm with protective Rog all the way! Also John definitely needs to get his act together and make a damn good apology
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	12. Chapter 12

John is curled up in bed but he isn't sleeping. He hears Freddie and Roger's words through the thin wall, and hot tears prickle his eyes. He trembles, feeling absolutely miserable. Wonders if Brian is listening too; and what is he thinking if he's awake? What can John do to fix this? He isn't good with words, except clearly in songs containing phrases calculated to wound his dearest friends. John shoves his way out of bed, tossing the blankets off his body and striding into the loo, turning on water for a shower.

As the steam begins filling the small tiled space, John's curls poof up even more than usual, growing staticky in the humid air, and he thinks about Brian always patting his own curls down, making them look right. John's always assumed that was a manifestation of his perfectionism, and perhaps it is. But it's also because curls just don't stay down! Not everything is an expression of something irritating personality-wise; come on. John sighs, giving up at last on his hair, and as he drops his pants and pulls off his shirt at last, the bassist hears the door opening again. 

A thready voice calls out "John, darling?"

Stepping into the shower under the spray and pulling the curtain round his body, John says back "In the loo, Fred. Taking a shower."

Freddie's footfalls stop at the door, and for once he knocks. Hesitantly. John knows something is really wrong then, because exuberant Freddie always runs into every room, knowing he's welcome, especially with John. They all run in and out of the same bathroom getting ready for shows and no one's ever minded. But now Freddie is knocking, asking if he can come in. 

"'Course you can," John responds, and his heart drops at the sight of his dear friend's trembling lips and piteous eyes. Their brown depths hold so much pain and sorrow as he wobbles into the room and collapses onto the rug before the tub, drawing knees to chest. 

Voice muffled in his lap, Freddie moans "Oh, we've royally fucked up this time, darling."

John can't even chuckle at the wordplay of his friend's attempted joke. He crouches down inside the shower, pinpricks of water striking the curve of his spine and sliding over his hair and face and back. "...I know," the bassist murmurs. "I--heard you and Roger out there. Talking."

Freddie expels a bitter laugh. "Was talking truly what that sounded like, dear heart?" 

Leaning his head back into the shower curtain, Freddie feels John shift the cloth and push his damp fingers through his friend's hair. Now John does smile, but his expression is hollow as his chest twinges painfully. He had done this; his song had caused this argument, the wedge now driven between Rog and Freddie. Between Brian and them too. "...Not really," the youngest man speaks softly. His tone strengthening, he grips Freddie's shoulder. "You CAN talk to him, though. You two..." _You two understand each other in a special way, without words being necessary. You'll be fine once Roger cools off._ John envies that, sometimes. The ease of Freddie's interactions with Rog, their banter and the shortness of their arguments. They can get close again, they always can, and do, and will be. He doesn't say all that, instead opting to continue with reassurance: "... you'll be alright. I believe that." Him, on the other hand... Whether or not Brian forgives him, or Roger does, for saying they don't need his drums-- because of his long-term personal petty stupid hang-ups (this isn't the first time he's felt like this, his feelings just finally exploded) the bassist doesn't think a simple apology is worth enough. He'll have to discover another way to show, to prove how sorry he is. No matter what else he feels, John knows just how awful a thing he's done.

As Freddie finally stands back up having composed himself, John ducks into the shower completely and lathers up his hair. As he digs his soapy fingers into his scalp, getting out all the dirtiness down to the roots, he knows this is what he has to do in his relationships. Give them a deep clean. He has got to fix this. John takes a deep breath of resolve.

He's got to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So John doesn't think a simple apology is enough. Wonder what else he's going to do? 
> 
> I just want to say, poor Freddie for being caught in the crossfire and wanting to make John happy, and Roger, and Brian, but with everything that's going on he can't seem to help all of his boys at once :'(
> 
> I'm working up to a confrontation and some reconciling, my loves. Comments appreciated <3


	13. Chapter 13

Roger is pacing. 

He'd gotten coffee and found food for Brian, had returned to the room and dealt with his friend's queries on why he'd run Freddie off and what they were going to do now, Rog; and the drummer says they'll figure it out. Brian nods and is doing his best to eat his food, but Roger cannot stand still or sit down. He jerks his fingers through his hair and asks if Bri needs anything.

Brian sighs fondly even as his head continues pounding. "No, Roger, I don't need anything. 'm fine."

He's fine. _Oh._ "Good, Brian; that's great," Roger bursts out, the words hitting him like a punch to the gut. "If John and Fred don't need me and now YOU don't need me either, I should just--" he doesn't know what he should do, he just wants everything to be fixed, to be BETTER-- yet of course he'd gone and shouted at Fred and made things worse.... Roger heaves a huge breath and waves an arm in fury, which does nothing. He wants to hit something, break something. Whirls around, curling one hand in a fist, and punches the wall.

He cries out in pain as his knuckles connect to the plaster and spins back to find his face in Brian's chest. The guitarist had shoved himself upright out of bed with both hands and now his cool skin is pressed to Roger's flushed face, hangover be damned. Brian's head is killing him even more due to the abrupt movement, but he doesn't relinquish his hold upon his friend. 

Roger is shaking now, his entire body, from his hair to his feet. Brian holds on tight as Roger grips his forearm with one hand, the other, with which he'd punched the wall, curled against his own chest. "What can I do, Brian?" Roger gasps. "What'm I good for, this--the band is my life, I..." His voice chokes off before he shakes his head and snarls "I can't lose it." _I can't lose you,_ he adds in his head.

Brian rubs both hands up and down Roger's backbone. "You won't, Roger," he says softly, making a decision. Pulling back enough to look into his friend's flushed face and to see those light bright eyes of cornflower blue glinting, glazed with tears, the guitarist lifts his hand and strokes his thumb across each of Roger's cheekbones to comfort him and stop the tears from falling. His voice is strained by emotions and pain, but sincere and gentle as he whispers "I'll always need you. I just-- I'm doing alright now. Well. At least better than I was earlier," he amends hastily in response to the drummer's incredulous snort. Brian resolves "Bollocks to this hangover, I'm going to get dressed and then we're meeting John and Freddie at the studio to talk about all of this. Together." _As a band,_ he means, and feels Roger's tense muscles start to relax as the guitarist once more pulls and holds his friend against him tightly. "Like you said to me last night, Rogie," Bri speaks firmly. "We're not fucking going anywhere."

Roger nods at him, shakes at last abating as he steps back and slowly stretches his hand, wincing a bit. His eyes grow big "Brian...," Everything he wants to voice is in his eyes, everything he feels about this dear man, his closest friend. And everything about John and Freddie as well. Life and all.

Brian nods to him, a sweet smile crinkling the outer corners of his eyes. "I know, Rog," he says, and picks up a shirt to pull over his head. Fluffy curls returning to sight, the guitarist straightens the cloth and reaches for pants. "Come on and we'll get some ice for your hand too."

Roger nods, feeling buoyant, despite everything. He swallows the lump in his throat and vocalises, for far more than this simple gesture of care, "Right then, Bri. --Thank you."

Brian smiles, his eyes alight with understanding of all Roger's words, spoken and unspoken, as he buttons up his trousers and slides feet into shoes. "Of course."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well Roger's reeling now, poor guy, and Brian is resolved. They're such good mates and so sweet to each other, I absolutely adore their relationship. Next chapter begets a confrontation with the rest of the band, oh boy....
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	14. Chapter 14

Brian and Roger feel the dankness, the staleness of the air in the studio at the moment the outer door closes behind them. Perhaps this place is smothering them, Brian thinks; stifling and strangling their affection for each other. Roger's thought is far less esoteric--if he's going to have a smoke to release some tension they'll have to crack a window. Maybe push Deaky out of it. Oh wait, there isn't one. They're in the fucking basement. Joy.

The drummer snorts out a laugh and glances at Brian, whose features are growing pinched. His brow lowers and wrinkles--with worry, Roger knows; that and his hangover besides. On impulse he reaches out with his uninjured left hand and takes Brian's right. "We're gonna be all right, Bri, you and me. Promise." Roger swears sincerely, having grown sombre as his twinging hand reminds him of his own place in the band, his need for some agency, some control. Though he and Bri see a great deal of things differently, they have that in common.

Brian squeezes Roger's hand gratefully. "Ready, Rog?" He asks. 

Roger nods, soft face focused and fierce. "For whatever's behind that door, Brian." He grips the other's hand tighter and then lets go. They're in this shite together, and because of that fact they will be all right. They had better be.

Freddie looks up as the studio doors open and his shoulders settle with relief as Roger and Brian enter together in-step. Not physically leaning upon one another, but close. Roger looks up to and murmurs something at Brian, who bows his curly dark head over Roger's sleek blond one to hear, and his reply makes the drummer's tense stance disappear for a moment. His entire face brightens as he laughs, and Freddie feels sick as he realises that brightness had been absent these past few weeks--well, months, really. He cannot believe he hadn't noticed. 

But he is noticing now.

John lifts his head from his quiet conversation with their producer as he hears Roger laugh. The sound is like music. No, better than music--it's like life-giving water, like sunshine gleaming gold through trees, providing light and warmth. Their music used to bequeath such life and light and joy, but listening to the playback with Mack just now tells John the opposite. The sound is dead; there is still space in the song, the drum machine isn't working, there's an echo. And though John had recorded all the basic guitar bits, something is missing.

Brian.

John steps forward, towards the guitarist and the drummer, opening his mouth and then closing it again as Bri's expressive hazel eyes snap to catch his, hurt and wariness warring within. But it is Roger who starts: "Oh, look, it's the miniature Queen band. Think you oughta change your name, though, since there's only two'a you. Call yourselves Princess or something."

Freddie looks at John, who ducks his head and swallows. "Roger, we... don't want to change the name. We can't be just two."

"Oh, really?" Roger snarls, jerking his chin towards Deaky as Freddie comes closer, speaking so. "Seems like that's what JOHN wants."

John flinches, his stormy eyes catching Roger's light furious ones before dropping. "No, Rog," he speaks quietly. Gulps. "We're--we're mates, we're a family."

"Really?" the drummer intones again, eyebrow rising as his voice does. "Because last time I checked, _mates_ don't write a song to talk shite about each other. And FAMILY doesn't say they don't need someone just because they won't fall into bloody line! And now you won't even _look_ at us!" Roger nearly screams as the bassist seems to grow smaller, shrinking in on himself. The drummer strides swiftly across the space and crowds right up to John, forcing Mack to get himself out of the way howsoever he can. "LOOK at me, John Deacon!" Roger's high voice may sound sweet to anybody else, but its shortness and the sharp nature of his husk tell John just how serious and truly furious he is. Not to mention hurt, as Rog shoots out his hand and grips John by the chin, forcibly lifting his face and then letting go instantly. 

That act alone would tell John everything he needed to know of Roger's feelings, because the drummer has always been a toucher. Very big on physical affection is Roger, in particular with John. But now he pulls back his hand as if the touch of John's skin is scalding him, and that hurts. Oh how much it hurts. The bassist croaks "Roger, I--"

"What, Deaky? You didn't mean it? You're sorry?!"

"No!" John shouts, snapping his face upright. He is not about to be steamrolled by the drummer's fury. Roger blinks, actually going silent in shock. "I did mean it," the bassist's eyes shift to Brian and he adds "So sorry doesn't do much, Brian, does it?"

A bitter smile of understanding and agreement crosses the guitarist's face as he stands with his arms crossed, fingers clenched to his sides. He clutches himself, eyes still full of agony. "No, John. It doesn't."

Roger makes a threatening movement. "Then what the hell are we even DOING back here?! C'mon Bri, let's go." The blond turns and physically starts to leave.

"Wait--" John pleads.

"He isn't done, darling," Freddie adds.

"Well maybe I am!" Roger explodes. "And I'm pretty fucking sure Brian is! Bri?" He turns to his gargantuan friend, trembling with the force of his indignation. Brian's eyes meet Roger's. He is so grateful for his friend's protectiveness, and part of him wants to leave too. His head is still pounding, he's mentally and emotionally exhausted, and yet...

...And yet truthfully Brian is tired of running. Of staying silent while his work is cut out. He may not enjoy disco, but Brian will be damned if there isn't space for a guitar solo in a club hit. So he reaches out to the blond and says "I want to stay, Rogie. I want to hear this."

Roger's eyebrows rise into his hair again and he steps closer to Bri, ignoring John and Freddie completely. "Are you sure?" he asks roughly. "Because you don't have to fucking listen to this, damn it. You don't deserve to be treated this way."

Brian reaches out and takes Roger's hand, his eyes growing round, voice wobbling even as his facial expression softens with gratitude. "Don't I?" He asks grimly, and before Roger can retort or grab ahold of him to shake sense in, he continues in a hurry "Yes, I'm sure, Rog. I want to stay." _I need to stay._ "But thank you for looking after me."

Roger grips Brian's hand, hoping the assurance that Bri doesn't deserve such harsh treatment, no matter what he's done, what he acts like--the drummer prays that sentiment shines through in the grasp of his hand, if Brian isn't going to believe his words. "Of course, Brian. _Someone_ fucking has to." Roger glowers at John and Freddie pointedly. Freddie lets out a sound of distress, tears in his eyes.

John clears his throat. "That's--erm. Well that's why I wanted to say..." the bassist bounces a little with nerves and regretful worry. What if Brian tells him to fuck off? Roger is incredibly close to doing so, and this entire row is wrecking Freddie. John feels his heart ache and he flushes now in shame. This is his fault. He has done this to them, shoved a rift between his friends. His friends to whom he'd sworn years ago that he would be their family, and that he'd do his best to be a good one. So much for that promise; this is nowhere close to his best. The bassist runs a hand over his hair before stuffing both hands into his pockets. Bowing his body forward, he adds "...We need you on this track. Both of you. It--it sounds so dead, Roger. The drum machine doesn't showcase the excitement you do. And Brian-" John chokes, eyes filling with tears. "I know it doesn't matter how sorry I am for saying what I did the way I did, but." He goes over to show the rolls of tape left and continues "--there's room for a solo." _There always should be._ "Without your guitar," John shrugs helplessly, words failing him.

"Without your guitar, darling, we don't sound like Queen." Freddie's rich tone is rough with emotion, his face now wet with tears as he steps closer to the others. "We need both of you," the singer looks from Brian to Roger in earnest. "And I do _not_ want to deal with the headaches of renaming this band Princess. Ugh. Can you imagine how ghastly that would be?"

Brian actually manages a smile. "With this raging hangover, yeah I can imagine, Fred. All-too-well."

There is silence before Freddie, then Roger, and at last even John bursts into laughter. Relief washes over them all in a cathartic wave, comforting to them all--even as the drummer and guitarist haven't agreed yet to return. "Brian, I'm so proud of you!" Roger crows.

"That was quite quick of you, my dear," smiles Freddie tremulously as he wipes away his tears. John simply chuckles slightly and Brian sighs. In relief, mostly. Thank goodness that's done with.

"Ha ha, I know it's amazing that Brian actually has a sense of humour," the guitarist grumbles but his eyes have regained a bit of their sparkle as he looks around at the other lads. Though what John wrote still hurts so much, Bri is allowing himself to believe--or at least to have the hope, painful and small--that perhaps they will, they can be all right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well the boys had their row, and John's put his wishes on the table for the band. Are they going to work on the song all together? Who can tell...
> 
> Bri and John still need to have a one-on-one conversation, I think.
> 
> As of now there is one more chapter of this piece to go, my darlings! Please let me know if you'd like to see/read more. :) EDIT: due to interest and ideas, I've added four more chapters to this piece. More potentially to come if inspiration strikes!
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	15. Chapter 15

After the laughter peters out, Brian sees John's gaze flicker again between him and Rog. He is so expressive, Deaks; every one of his emotions is writ across his entire face, showcasing all he feels. How could Brian have missed the buildup of frustration, the sullen anger, the withdrawing? Maybe he had blocked it out, hadn't wanted to contemplate why John would be feeling such a way in connection to him. It hurts too much now just thinking, wondering whether or not the bassist does hate him a little, no matter what Roger swears to the contrary.

Brian always thought John would talk to him, as Freddie and Roger do. He's dealt so much with disapproval, with silences. The cessation of speech always meant the worst in Brian's family. When his father stopped speaking to him, that was the moment Brian really, truly knew he had done wrong in his eyes. Freddie and Roger both talk to him, are vocal--and vehement--about their thoughts and feelings and concerns. Whereas John... he is ALWAYS quiet with Brian. With everyone, really; except to answer direct questions or to talk about the business side of the band. He gets animated around Miami, talking about figures and finance. 

He does converse with Freddie and giggles with Rog, but the times past when Brian and Deaky had really connected were wordless. They shared looks during the filming of music videos, or sat close to one another in interviews. Brian vividly recalls a time in the band's early days when John dropped off to sleep somewhere and Brian had carried him to bed. John huddled close to Brian's lean chest and both men were content, felt what they meant, how much they meant to one another. Brian aches to feel that way again, to recapture that closeness somehow. When had they lost it? He wonders desperately. And can working on this song, finishing this album, grinning and bearing disco because it is a genre that John loves... can that allow them all to mend these broken fences?

Brian looks to Roger, who sighs and lifts an open palm, inviting the guitarist to speak to John, to take the lead on this choice and the drummer will follow. Brian appreciates Roger's trust more than he can say, just as he does the blond's intuitive nature and knowledge of him. He knows Brian so well, and vice versa. Though they don't agree on much of anything, Bri is exceedingly glad and grateful they agree upon this.

"...Okay, John," the guitarist says, dipping his head in a polite nod. "If you--since you need us on this, Rog and I will do the song."

"ONLY if this isn't a one-time thing," Roger pipes up sharply, blue eyes fierce as they light first upon John and then upon Freddie. "If you need us for this, you need us in the band. No more dropping Bri's guitar solos."

Right. "And no filching Roger's drums from him." Brian's gentle tone grows steely.

"Yeah, no fucking drum machines," Roger adds. "If you really need that sound--" he closes his eyes with a shiver of disgust as he resolves "--I can produce it myself."

"And I can layer Roger's tracks for him to help that, yeah?" Mack's accented voice comes over the intercom, as he had departed the recording room itself, but is clearly still listening from inside the studio. All four men turn to look at him deliberately and the producer raises both hands, moving back. "Sorry, sorry to interrupt. My pardon, go on."

Roger is the last to look away from the German, glowering as Brian huffs out a laugh and John studies the floor with a small smile. It is Freddie who claps his hands and crows "That seems more than fair, my darlings." He beckons then, hesitant yet hopeful that he and his boys are making up, at least a little. "Let's go on with the remainder of this track, yes?"

The singer watches as Roger strolls leisurely back to adjust his drums as darling Deaky pulls his bass strap over his shoulder. 

Brian takes a little while to unpack his guitar, as he had been leaving her in her case, alone, for weeks by this time. His long fingers curl and shake around the heft as he lifts his beloved guitar up to rest against his chest after plugging her in. "C'mon Red," he whispers. "Let's dance again, you and I." Nodding sharply to the other three, black curls bouncing, face set, Brian readies himself to come in wherever he is needed as Mack starts the playback.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a bit short with a lot of introspection from Brian. I really think he and John could communicate nonverbally, and did a great deal; several videos I have seen, including the Making of 'Radio Ga Ga' showcased their quiet closeness. I also noted it in an interview they did in Japan, just the two of them. I think after years of working together and knowing someone so well, as you think you would, one might start to take another person (or several people in this case) for granted, no matter how much you love them. Even, perhaps, because of how much you love them. 
> 
> They need to talk, Brian and John. Or something. At least they're all recording together now!
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	16. Chapter 16

John has all of the guitar parts done for 'Back Chat', all but in a space between the last two choral sections. Freddie's rich tones come through the speakers, a sultry purr. He was clearly enjoying himself. None of that is lost on Brian as he digs in and manages to find a solo progression. His eyes flicker over to study Freddie, who is automatically moving his body along to the playback, and John bobbing his head with the beat. A smirk crosses the bassist's features and that sight isn't lost on the guitarist either. He heaves out a heavy exhale, mouth open, eyes flat and dull. Even as Roger glowers from behind his drums. On Brian's behalf, yes, but also upon his own. He may have said he would be the drum machinist, but that does not mean he is happy about it.

Fred is already vocalising ideas for the music video. "Set it in a prison," Roger snorts and the singer jumps on that statement, spoken sardonically but without irony. Brian chuckles drily. It is not entirely clear whether Freddie took that suggestion as being ironic or not, yet whatever the case was in which he took the suggestion, Fred excitedly speaks about chrome like contours of a pneumatic lift and bars dropping down in front of his face. Grey, white, and black; a monochromatic set with billows of thick smoke flowing and expanding throughout the room as the lift rises with the singer inside. 

Luckily they must leave the studio space to shoot such a video--to a separate sound stage with actual ventilation. And windows--small and high so as not to throw undue amounts of natural light onto the artificial glow of the sound stages, but still there. Freddie gets so into the video, gyrating and circling his fists as though he is in a boxing ring. He is wearing a completely white outfit with an enormous upturned Elvis-esque collar, popped and accentuating his head and shoulders. And he looks damn good in it with his broad torso and shining eyes. 

Brian slouches in his dark jacket and white button-up shirt. Shadows on the stage are lengthy anyhow, so it is a simple feat for him to disappear into them. Camera is focused mostly on Freddie; and John too, in a black and white striped shirt, bopping to his bass beat and grinning. Freddie dances up with, to him, for once leaving Brian alone as Roger glowers out from his drum tier until his solo. He is given a drum solo as Bri gets his for guitar; they had worked it out in studio with Mack pointing out where too much space existed in the track, where there was an echo, a reverberation. Where something else needed to come in.

Brian's fingers fly over Red's strings as he breathes slowly, gritting his teeth. The camera catches him shaking out his left hand a trio of times in frustration, his lengthy fingers spread. And of course that bit gets replayed for the extended version of the song. Yet upon catching John's satirical glance, true to the word Brian had given--to himself if aloud to no one else--he smiles tightly and nods. 

"Fine," Brian intones. "That's fine. You looked amazing, Freddie," he adds because he cannot help it. John had looked great too. Relaxed-- he had been moving well. "...I can see--can tell how much you both enjoyed that." Bri's voice breaks, his chest seizes up. _Enjoyed taking the mick out of me, all right then._

Roger now snorts. "I hate it, you know that, but do what you want," he snaps as their video director shows him the playback of himself.

Freddie looks up in concern. "If you truly detest it, Roger darling, we can redo."

"No, because it won't get any better," snaps the drummer. His voice softens a trifle as John in particular winces. "'S gotta groove, and I'm sure it'll end up a smashing club hit." He flips his drumsticks in the air, which he had not done a single solitary time during the video. "--But you know how I feel about club music, Fred. I sounded like a ruddy drum machine." Roughly the blond shoves back his hair. "But I did it, and it's over. Can we go now?" Roger does his damnedest to smile as Freddie and John glance at one another, and then to the videographer, who promises to put all the pieces together.

"Yes, of course we can go," returns Freddie. He continues almost timidly "Would you care to go for drinks, my love?"

Roger's shoulders stiffen as he ducks over his drum set, facing away from Freddie. "Why? Don't you have anybody else to go round with, Fred?" His eyes are glittering as he pivots sharply to stare at his friend, high voice snarling "You don't need me, remember?"

Freddie's heart thumps and his eyes fill. "I'll always need you, Roger dear." When Rog still doesn't soften, the singer begs "Please, Blondie. My treat." 

Roger lets out an explosive breath, sighing heavily as he catches Brian's understanding gaze. The guitarist nods to him slightly, dipping his chin encouragingly. They need to talk more. "Fine!" Roger snaps as he hauls his drums over to the pick-up place. "Don't expect me to just up and bloody forgive you, though. I'm serious, Fred."

The singer's cheeks are now pinched, but he nods. "Whatever you're comfortable with, dear. Are you coming, Deaky?"

Something about the expression in Roger's eyes encourages John to return quietly "You go on, Freddie. I've got...some things I can finish up here, first."

"I'll be staying a bit too," Brian utters. "I can pack up with you, John, if that's alright?" His tone of voice is heavy and uncertain as his hazel eyes flick up from underneath his fluffy black fringe.

John shrugs noncommittally. Doesn't really matter what he says anyway, or at least it hasn't seemed to previously. "As you like, Brian." 

Freddie's eyes widen, their limpid depths softening, then sharpening with some understanding. His boys need this. "Right then."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is another rather short chapter-- the boys are going to talk, and tempers are still flaring. Time is a little fuzzy here, but I figure it took the rest of the day to finish recording, and the next to do the video.
> 
> Here are two versions of 'Back Chat' that I referenced and listened to when writing this chapter. 
> 
> 'Back Chat' official video: https://youtu.be/y6QGP0OUaV4
> 
> 'Back Chat' extended version video (which is most of the song twice, showing some close-ups multiple times): https://youtu.be/PJxF3Vwa-E8
> 
> These poor lads, they've got a lot of issues still to address. I know Roger especially didn't enjoy the "club sound" of _Hot Space_. And he really does look angry to me in the music video. Bri too appears frustrated.
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	17. Chapter 17

John's eyes follow Freddie and Roger's egress from the sound stage. He still believes with certainty that the pair of them will be okay; once Rog gets a few drinks in him he will be far more apt to cool down and listen. Or blurt out the remainder of his grievances after which he and Freddie will more than likely hug it out. Well. Such is their relationship. He, on the other hand...

Working in sync, even after all that's happened between them, Brian and John roll up microphone cords and close the speakers after camera folks roll out their equipment. It takes a good bit of time, and afterwards the bassist peers over at Brian, who is loosening the strings of his Old Lady in preparation to return the guitar to her case. John's lips twitch in a sardonic smirk. It is certainly too much to think he and Bri can come to an understanding so surely as Fred and Rog will. John sighs heavily and unplugs his amplifier from its extension cord, Brian having already unplugged his guitar from said amp. The bassist then unscrews his instrument from the loops of electrical cord still attached to its front. Brian cradles his guitar against his lean chest with such care now, as much care as he takes when playing and preparing himself to play.

The manner in which the guitarist holds her, the love he made, long hands ever-so-slightly shaking, head bent--it causes something to clench within John's heart. Especially when Brian whispers "So long, old girl, for now." For how long, he doesn't know. "Dunno when next I'll need you." A wan smile flickers across his face as his eyes rise to John's, who feels a souring in his stomach and throat even as Bri dips his face as though defeated.

"Oh come on," John scoffs before he can stop himself. 

"What?" The tall man inquires, fingers stilling on the latches of his guitar case. "What d'ya mean by that, John?"

John presses his lips together and bobs his head, snorting. _Way to exude melodrama there, Brian,_ Roger would have teased. _Channelling Fred much?_ But John has not the tonal abilities to tease Bri that way. Nor does he see the humour, instead he hears layers and layers of meaning underneath Brian's words--not in the least because Bri must surely know "--You can always get your way, Brian, make your points. If you want another solo, Freddie'll side with you. Roger too." He huffs. _You bowl over them, over me. You get your way in spite of us._

"...John," Brian breathes, blinking frantically, "I don't just want it 'my way', I want--I care about the, about our sound. About the band."

"Really? You sure you don't solely care about the sound that YOU want? Rock 'n roll forever, ride or die, Queen lives upon the guitar strains of Brian Harold May." Brian flinches, shoulders rising, stiffening. "Is this new sound truly so awful, Brian? Or is it just awful that Freddie and I aren't following your lead anymore?"

Brian winces, his entire body trembling now. "I... I never thought I was taking the lead," he speaks tremulously. "Not in a controlling way, I mean. I just, I want the sound to be OUR sound. Y'know, Queen."

"--And you absolutely despise disco," pipes up the bassist wryly.

"Disco isn't --at all my scene," Brian allows, swiping an unruly curl behind his ear. "But I think 'despise' is a little strong." Picking up and moving his guitar into her case now, Brian's fingers are shaking; along with his arms, with everything. "It's just, not rock, so it isn't Queen." Brian widens his eyes, lifting both hands desperately.

"Oh come off it, Brian--whatever we're PLAYING is Queen!"

"But I'm NOT playing," Brian explodes. "You won't let me play!"

"You just said you hate the music," John retorts.

"I don't-- well I may hate disco, Deaky, but YOU hate me! Don't you?!?" 

John stares at Brian in utter shock, frozen completely silent. Is that truly what Brian thinks of him? Honestly? "Why would I... Brian, you think--no, I don't hate you, of course not! You're just--" John roughly pushes his fingers through his short curls. "You're right infuriating, you're stubborn and brilliant and Freddie and Roger listen to you so often, so much, you've got such a huge ruddy presence--"

"Right, since I'm so tall," Brian says, sinking even farther into himself. "They don't always listen to me, though; I just try to speak my mind."

"And you're good at it," John bursts out. "You're passionate. Articulate, and I'm, I can't do that, I--"

"What are _you_ going on about, John?" Brian is shaking his head. How does the other man not see it, not realise how strong of a personality he has, in his own quiet stubborn way? "Fred got Roger to become a bloody DRUM MACHINE because of how much he loves you and wants you to be happy making this album. And I, I know I'm awful," Brian gulps "--but I never wanted to, never meant to ignore you, make you feel like I don't listen, that I just run over you and talk back. I-I'm sorry." He chokes, voice wobbling, eyes filling with tears. "I'm so sorry."

As Brian's face crumples, John hears Freddie's voice in his mind again, saying that Brian is one of the most feeling people the singer knows. Clearly that is true, and John knows it, but didn't want to think about it, to contemplate what holding his feelings deep inside himself so long, not voicing them aloud before now, not until he wrote that song-- what that meant and could mean. What it is doing to the pair of them now; particularly, especially to Brian in his tearfulness. 

The shorter man steps forward, shuffling and clearing his throat, blinking hard in his own turn. John's voice cracks as he whispers from his closing throat the truth, because really, he should have just said this before instead of writing down all his pent-up vitriol and infusing said vitriol into a lively dance tune. "Oh Brian," he croaks, voice infinitesimal, nigh inaudible: "I'm sorry too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was going to be longer, but I got emotional about it. What is Brian going to do? How will he respond? A trio of chapters will tell...
> 
> Twenty chapters is the final FINAL count, loves. Comments appreciated <3


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fred and Roger in a bar
> 
> WARNING for reference to past abuse and fear of a lack of acceptance. These poor boys

Ordinarily when Freddie takes Roger to a pub or a dancing establishment, when they choose to go together, the drummer heads right into the thick of things. Often with a girl--or several girls--on his arm. On this occasion he heads directly to the wooden bar, however, plunking his body upon a stool in a stolid manner. His eyes are on the drinks instead of Freddie, shoulders tense and pert lips pursed, and the singer knows that his dear drummer is solely here for drinking today. 

Hadn't gotten the chance a duo of nights ago, as he'd been watching out for Brian and happy to do so. And last night he'd been ruddy exhausted after taking a cold shower and screaming into the pillow over his frustration about the fucking drum machine sound he'd been forced to create. "With energy, though, Roger dear" as if he doesn't know how to play the bloody drums-- though he's been doing so for nearly twenty years at this point, thank you very much. But oh, let's give a robotic mechanical sound a shot, even with all that experience, like THAT makes fucking sense as a choice.

Roger doesn't even order Freddie a drink, just raps upon the surface of the bar and orders two shots for himself. Sucks down liquor--and rage, as it stands--before grunting about needing another, an actual drink this time. Freddie orders his own beverage, "Grey goose and tonic, darling, if you'd be so kind," he tosses off with a smile for the barkeep. That smile freezes and wilts a bit even as he keeps his tone light, inquiring of Roger gently "Pretty boy, what's your poison?" He's prepared for the snorted banter, the scoffing of _Whiskey, what else?_ or _Better than your blooming vodka, Fred,_ or some such.

But all he gets is "Not strong enough," and a growl from Roger to the bartender "Bring the fucking bottle over here, wouldja? I'm good for it." He slaps a bundle of banknotes down as the man raises his eyebrows but obediently brings the decanter.

"Love," Freddie's deep eyes get big, turn into enormous brown pools of concern, downright worry, as the blond shakes back his hair and grips the decanter neck, preparing to purse those shapely lips around enough alcohol, drunk at once, to truly act as poison. "Roger, wait."

"For what?!" The blond snarls, turning himself to face Freddie for the first time, sunglasses resting in his soft light hair as he'd jerked them up. His blue eyes are hard and flat with fury. "For fucking WHAT, Freddie? You to catch up, or leave for a better place, a louder party? 'Cause I know you don't need an invitation. Just like y' don't need me, eh?" Roger's teeth are bared, he's snarling. Fist is clenched around the glass housing his alcohol again, and for the briefest, awfullest of seconds Freddie Mercury fears that bottle is going to brain him.

But no; Roger only jerks his arm away and gulps from before shoving the glassware back upon the scarred wooden surface. Tosses his head, trembling and attempting valiantly to hide it. Destroyed but trying to take it. His father didn't need him for anything but to be a punching bag; mum and sister for protection, sure. Brian for care. Bri just needs somebody, the stubborn self-loathing bastard that he is. But Roger also thought he had, he would always have Freddie and Deaky. For music and love, for interests in common, and passion--for music, yeah, and for... other things. The blond thinks now on moments he and John have shared, and wishes he didn't, because the thought of those dear green-grey eyes soft, pupils dilated with love--juxtaposed against the frigid storminess when John said perhaps they did not need him or his drums; god, but that hurts. When Freddie said it sounded as though Roger WANTED to be cut out when he never wanted that, never ever. Music is his life and the band, these blokes are his family. 

Or at least, Roger used to think so. Now...

...Now, Freddie feels an ugly darkness blow through his heart, sweep through his body, sinking deep. A grimace twists his face. Even as he feels awful for putting Roger out in the cold, making his beloved friend feel truly unneeded, unwanted, Roger's vehement distaste for disco and its 'club sound' hurts as much as his continual snarky diatribes about Freddie's hangers-on. If he doesn't accept them, or even the sound itself, how can he, does he really accept this part of Freddie? This facet of who he is? "Well what _I_ didn't need, I don't need the disgust, my dear." Freddie's tone is sleek and acerbic and venomous. Roger blinks in some surprise at that comment in particular. "Your distaste for disco--and Brian's--is INCREDIBLY well-known, often-voiced, and documented." Freddie taps his fingertips upon the curve of his vodka glass and drains it, calling for another of straight vodka this time. His eyes catch Roger's sharply even as his stomach clenches and rolls sickly. Truthfully the singer is frightened by Roger's disgust and what it means. "But if you cannot handle that or where it comes from--" The leather bar sound, the gay clubs play disco hits "--and that I spend my time there," Underneath his moustache Freddie's lips tremble, even as he tries to remain cool and unaffected and strong. John had been ecstatic about this choice of sound, but he was the only one; and if one half of a band does not accept the other...

Freddie smacks his lips now, flourishing one wrist as he's given another drink. His tone of voice grows heavy and clipped, all his typical exuberance gone in the intensity of his feeling: "Well Roger, perhaps Princess really ought to become a name option then. For John and I."

Silence. Roger's eyes widen as he sucks in a breath so enormous that he cannot immediately exhale and coughs instead. Oh, fuck. Freddie... Damn it Fred. Even without him saying directly, the drummer's nimble mind leaps in sharp awareness of his friend's allusions. He knows Freddie so well. Incredibly well. They understand one another intimately, and have done right from the start. Can tell each other anything, or could. Have done before, at least. Often when intoxicated like this (or more so). Lights brighten and blur around Roger as the drinks and Freddie's words hit him. The latter hits far harder, and at the look on Freddie's face--in his eyes, mostly: Roger still hasn't gotten used to the damn moustache--the blond expels a wrenching noise. "Fuck, Freddie," he breathes as his dear friend turns from him. Roger swallows. He wants to say he is sorry for his petulant ridiculousness, and means it--how important are his drums next to Freddie's SELF, for that is what they are talking about here? He means to apologise, but the singer looks at him and instead "Heh, we've really stepped in it, haven't we, mate? Don't speak for bloody months...,"

Freddie's lips twitch. Well, his stache does. "Certainly not like this, my love." He agrees. His eyes, ever deep and kind and open, get this look in them now like windows with the shades pulled down. Like the look Roger himself manufactures with sunglasses, or Brian with his carefully-worded answers to interview questions. Deaks with his silence, of course. The curtain of privacy has started to drop, to close, and this time Freddie is hiding himself from Roger, which he has never done before.

Roger cannot stomach that, no matter how furious he is. "Oh, Fred," He says, slapping the wood of the bar sharply "Takes one stubborn bastard t' know another. Bollocks to disco, but not you, mate. I love you. All 'a you." The drummer swings his hand to clamp onto Freddie's closer forearm and give it a bracing, affectionate squeeze. "Always have, from the first." _And I always will, no matter how much shite like this comes up between us._

"And I you," Freddie chokes out, trembling as he puts his hand on top of Roger's. "Oh, Roger darling, you will always be needed. Needed and adored."

Roger sucks in a breath and closes his eyes. A warmth that has nothing to do with the liquor he imbibed fills him up as his husky high voice croaks on "Thank you." And then to lighten the mood, he quips "I just gotta side with Brian on SOMEthing, y'know? You an' Deaky disagreeing wi' him, not needing his solos screwed him up." Freddie flinches, eyes growing agonised as they fill with tears. "But oi, don't go on like that. We'll be all right." Squeezing his dearest Freddie's arm again, Roger feels his shoulders relaxing and his heartbeat slowing down. His surroundings are still undulating, or have just begun to as a result of his drinking, but the drummer does not mind at all. He feels... better for speaking out just now.

Especially when his companion leans over and kisses his cheek with all Freddie's wordless adoration and appreciation in evidence. Dearest, strongest Roger. His every drop of friendship and loyal, straightforward vehemence means more to Freddie than words could ever express.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Freddie and Rog needed this, and from accounts disco was a "gay club sound" which led me to wonder, along with a comment on the previous chapter (thank you very much ghostdreaming) if Freddie ever worried his bandmates might not accept him, or at least not all of him. But Rog just worries and has his own likes and dislikes. As does sweet Bri. They both love their Freddie so much, and his sexuality never mattered to them. As Brian has said, "why should it?"
> 
> Next is more talking for Brian and Deaky and Roger and Fred return to the hotel
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	19. Chapter 19

Brian May is shaking, dark head bowed, curls and shoulders trembling violently as he grips his own knees with his long hands. He'd sunk to those knees as he apologised, and hears John whisper through roaring in his ears, sounding like the ocean or the static feedback after a tape has been played, or the hiss ever-present on any radio feed that he'd ever heard sent up to Space. He feels as cold, empty, and dark as that immense expanse; can see no light from any star as he thinks on how awful he has certainly been for John to see him as infuriating; knows he's been insufferable. John may not hate Brian, but still... 

The guitarist jumps as he feels hesitant hands touch his hair, thin strong fingers moving through the curls, stroking his scalp with their tips. Cool hints of metal touch Bri's hair and stroke his skin as he shakes. The metal is from rings. John's rings. John is touching him voluntarily. Oh, god. Brian whimpers. It feels so lovely, and he's been so awful.

John's face is puckered up as he watches Brian weep. In the deepest, pettiest part of himself, he thought to feel satisfied seeing Brian break down, having him realise what he has done. But he cares about Brian; loves him, despite everything. Which is another reason why Bri's nitpicking hurts so much. It seems like he does not think Deaks is good enough. But no, that isn't it. Now John understands how Brian truly feels, and it sends ice through his arteries and veins. _Brian_ doesn't think he is good enough. His solos are his way of being heard. 

The bassist gulps and blinks, a prickling in his eyes as he steps up to Brian and pushes fingers through his hair. Trying to show, somehow, that he really does care. He loves Bri like a brother. A stubborn, infuriating, perfectionistic, protective older brother with a kind and feeling heart. John himself is always locked so tight, at least until he explodes. Right now especially he regrets that. But he stays near Brian, and the tall man starts hugging him, damp face pressed into John's abdomen, bony arms wrapping around the bassist's legs. Brian forgives John instantly, of course he does. Hears John's apology. He never knew, but now he knows the way the bassist felt, feels about Brian's words and actions. "Oh, Deaky," he moans into John's now-damp stripey shirt "Can you ever forgive me?"

John's hands move to rub Brian's back as he dips his face to rest in the guitarist's fluffy hair. His head moves and Bri feels the sharp firmness of John's chin pressing against his head in a nod. Wordless but solid. Brian shifts his arms up to take hold of John's slim waist as the bassist's arms remain wrapped around him and his own shakes ever-so-slowly cease.

***

Freddie is hanging onto Roger's waist as the blond whirls him around some time later. Whirls them both, really; he'd had an exorbitant amount of drinks this night. Freddie slightly less, so he is the one working on their room keys. Roger giggles, face falling into Freddie's broad chest as the singer steps back to orient himself and catch him. "Roger dear, lemme get the door," he slurs a bit, stroking his drummer's hair back.

"Fuck th' door," Roger mumbles, and apparently finds that hilarious, his eyes lighting up and cheeks crinkling as he giggles. They are together again, Rog and Fred against the world. "Jus' gotta take it t' supper first, Fred." 

Freddie laughs, and then the door opens as John peers blearily out of it, rubbing his face. He had apparently been asleep in Freddie's room again. Roger weaves forward now and it's all the bassist can do to catch him. "D'you have him, darling?" Fred's eyes are sweet and large as he then inquires "Where's Brian? Did you dear boys work things out at all?"

John swallows. "I--think so," he replies, hand curving around to cup Roger's cheek. "And he's, he's in his room." Freddie nods and John adds "... I'll take Rog if you," he doesn't finish but Freddie kisses him on the cheek and cups his face affectionately, weaving just a bit. His dearest Deaky understands what Freddie needs, wants to do.

Roger groans and sags in John's arms, almost falling to the floor and letting out a gurgling little gasp. "If you've got him, darling, I'm going to talk to Bri," the singer says. John nods, wrapping his arms around and lifting Roger's body tenderly as the drummer grunts and opens his eyes, having almost fallen into unconsciousness on his feet just then. 

As John hauls Roger's arm around his shoulders and backs into the room, Freddie crosses to Brian's door, knocking upon it heavily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bri and John had a lovely moment, I think. They really do care about each other so much. Hopefully I can wrap all this up satisfactorily in the next chapter, loves
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	20. Chapter 20

Brian is lying in the haze before sleep, where he feels as though he's floating but not actually able to drift down the rest of the way. He and Deaky had taken all the instruments back, packed everything up, and went for a walk to get food after he'd cried himself out, foolishly, into John's shirt. But the younger man said nothing about it, he came along willingly with Brian--actually inquiring softly if Bri had anything much to eat that day, of which the answer was no; for all of them, really. Both snorted then at the thought of Roger's potential time tonight if HE doesn't eat. 

They talked a bit, about missing home and perhaps that being another reason tempers have been flaring. They love Montreux, of course; mostly due to how much Freddie does, how his eyes light up here. Dearest Freddie, whom they have both begun to worry about. "I'm certain Roger is giving him an earful right about now," Brian said, and John had chuckled, let out a peal of laughter that was real and true and held no hidden malice behind it. 

It is the recollection of that laugh that is calming Brian's whirling mind and slowly sending him now toward sleep.

And then he hears a loud knock upon his door.

John carefully closes his door, or Freddie's, as he'd basically moved himself and his stuff in with his friend when things got bad. For them to talk over the album, he said; or would have, if the others asked, but also because for a while there Freddie was the only person who didn't glare at John with ireful or resentful eyes. 

Now the pair of bright blue eyes that have gazed at John in hurt and fury so frequently of late are bleary with drink and vague recognition. Soft affection floats for a moment in the softer face of Roger Meddows Taylor and then he nearly falls down. "Whoa, Roger," John murmurs. "I gotcha."

"--Cheers. Where's Freddie?" Roger slurs, and then his eyes brighten as he shrieks "is he HIDING?? C'me out, c'mon out, Freddieee!" John tries to hush him in horrified amusement, saying Fred went to talk to Brian and Roger should really keep his voice down. Roger pouts and pulls away from the other man. "You're no fun, John. John, John. You're so angry all th' time, y' should be happy, ya got your disco!" Roger waves his arms and then lurches away, falls to his knees. His eyes bulge and his stomach gurgles. "Ohh, not good. 'm gonna--" 

John pulls open the bathroom door and hauls Roger through, getting his friend to the toilet bowl just as Roger lets fly all alcohol and everything else in his stomach. "Oh, god," he groans, clutching the edges of the toilet. "Everything's ...spinnin' John. John John, you'd know wi' your amp bar. Ampbar, badum yeahhh," Roger jerks and hums. He expels his insides again, closing his eyes this time. Feels cool fingers against his sweating face and his hair is being pulled back. 

A stretch of pressure around the hanks of soft blond hair on his head confuses Roger for a moment, but John crouches beside him in his peripheral view. "...Put an extra one of your old wristbands round that all," John tells him. "Keep your hair out of your face and... everything." 

One of Roger's watery blue eyes glowers at him as the drummer snorts, after retching, "Yeah, great. Why d'you care?" He waves a hand, the other still clutching the toilet as John's face slides in and out of his view whilst the loo keeps spinning in its entirety. Roger does see John's eyes crinkle, his face start to pucker with confusion and hurt. "No, don't gimme that, Deaks. Y' said y' don't need me, remember?" Roger starts gasping, eyes tearing up not only from the vomiting now. "An' if you don't need me, what'm I gonna do?" Roger goes to hands and knees now, squeezes his eyes shut for a moment as his shoulders tremble and he takes a deep breath, trying to focus on John, get the room to cease spinning. "What'm I gonna do?" Roger's high voice chokes, cracks as his eyes are no longer furious, but agonised when he reopens them. His real pain is shining through all the remnants of alcohol. "I love you, Deaky," he whispers, high voice breaking. "An' I thought ...I thought 'cha loved and needed me too."

Oh, god. "Roger, I do need you," John's face completely crumples now, his eyes haunted and helpless as he reaches out to take Roger's hands. Roger sways and snatches them away before dropping to the tile on his arse instead of his knees. John had been in tears with Brian, but now those tears are coming in a flood, a deluge, tearing at his throat as do his next words. "I can't take back what I said, but I snapped, Rog. I never wanted..." His gentle voice is squeaking, going haywire as he collapses on the cold floor as well, trembling fingers reaching for Roger's. "I know it's not forgivable what I said, but I need you, Roger. And your drums too, but--but mostly you." _I've always needed you. You laugh with me, and understand me. You get me out of my shell, you and Freddie. And oh, I'm so grateful for that, and for you._ "Oh, I love you," John whimpers. "...and I was wrong to say that maybe we didn't need your drums. I'm sorry."

There is silence broken only by John's whimpering as he buries his face in his hands, entire body shaking with sobs. It is as if a dam has burst and he cannot stop the tears. There is a grunt and a clearing throat. A sigh preceding eventual words. "Well that's all ya had t' say," Roger's voice is a gentle growl now as he shifts his body over to Deaky, arm curling around his neck and head, fingers stroking the bassist's hair. "That y' were wrong." Pillowing his soft cheek upon John's shoulder, Roger closes his eyes and rubs his dear mate's back. "It's all right, let it out, Deaky. 'M not going anywhere. Mostly because I feel like hell." John expels a watery chuckle. "Christ, I'm never drinking again."

"That's what I always say too," John whispers, wiping his eyes as he leans into Rog. "Look where that's getting me." 

The blond laughs, turns his sparkling eyes on the dark-haired man's stormy ones. "Ah mate, look at the pair of us. Ridiculous." Roger claps John's upper arm and groans. "An' I may soon be ridiculous and dead."

John smiles slightly and moves his legs under himself to stand. He tentatively offers a hand to Roger. "Well I'll getcha to bed. Hopefully...things will be better in the morning." _For all of us._

The bassist is not certain what the drummer will do, and thus his heart leaps when Roger takes his hand, allowing himself to be led to bed. "Y' better fucking know what you're on about," the drummer growled as he flops face-first into the bedclothes. "I can't take any more'a this shite."

Pulling the covers out from underneath and spreading them across Roger's limp exhausted body instead, John huffs out a breath, wiping his eyes. "Me too, Rog," he whispers. _And it's mostly my fault, but me bloody too._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay I have to change my word one last time-- Freddie and Brian still have to talk, and they all need to get together for a nice band moment. So there's a tentative 21 chapters, hard 22. At least more of the boys are talking now!
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	21. Chapter 21

Freddie's heart is in his throat as he knocks on Brian's door again, leaning his forehead against it to listen for any movement after an extended moment. He knows Brimi isn't asleep; the dear man's mind whirls so much he often murmurs about being up half the night. Not complaining; Brian never complains about anything but their music, to get the proper sound. He doesn't even complain upon his own behalf as the rest of them do, John to such shattering effect now, which makes Freddie's heart ache. "Brian?" His voice trembles a bit as does his hand. "It's Freddie. Please, love, may I talk to you?" 

There is silence for a long agonising moment and then the sound of footsteps and what Freddie is certain is a sigh. The knob turns and the door opens to reveal Brian leaning against the cheap lintel, in open shirt and navy boxers with stars on. Freddie's heart leaps as he sees the shorts, a pair he'd gotten for Brian years ago, certain he would be excited and that he'd definitely know all the constellations. Freddie makes a mental note to ask for an explanation someday, perhaps including modeling. But he cannot be cheeky now as Brian's eyes appear so tired, his face looks so pale and wan even by typical standards. Shoulders shake under his shirt's thin material and Brian crosses his arms over his chest, studying Freddie, who automatically posits "Darling, won't you get under a blanket? You'll catch a chill."

Brian lifts a brow. "I was," he says, that sweet voice slightly flat, harsher than normal. It makes Freddie shiver. "I was in bed when you came knocking, Freddie." The tall man pulls one knobbly hand out from beneath the opposite armpit and gestures around. "So. What did you come to say to me?"

For once he is not shifting to let Freddie into his room, and that breaks Freddie's heart. Hot tears of shame fill his eyes. Oh, how grievously he has clearly wounded his dear Brimi to cause the man to forgo his innate politeness and not ask the singer in. "I know how you are--how you must be hurting," he says, sucking in his cheeks, lacing fingers together. "--but believe me, I never wanted to cause you any pain, Brian darling."

Brian's eyes go colder, if possible. He presses his lips together and bobs his head with a jerk. One arm shoots out and his frightfully chilly fingers close around Freddie's wrist as he jerks the singer into his room and closes the door, breathing heavily. Freddie has no time to be happy that he'd been allowed in, if a trifle brusquely, as Brian is heaving out heavy breaths and spinning away from him after letting go. "DO you?" He snaps out, voice louder, more strident than it is outside of sound check rows. "Really, Freddie? Because if you know how I am feeling, hurting, you know how much...how much you've hurt me. How much John did too. And you--and you're so kind, Fred," his voice squeaks and falls to a sudden whimper, so soft the singer almost cannot hear. But he does hear: "...or at least you were..." Freddie lets out a tiny cry, shoulders jerking as if Brian had struck him. Brian stops, eyes filling with tears. He stops and swallows and whispers "You cut me so deep, you let John cut me out--my playing out for so long, and I'm supposed to be your Hendrix." Brian's lips tremble as do his hands, tears spilling from his broken gaze and sluicing down his cheeks, but somehow his voice remains relatively steady, though it is thin as a thread. "If you know how much this is hurting me, Freddie, then _WHY IN THE HELL DID YOU DO IT?!?_ If not to cause me pain, then," the guitarist flings up his arms and collapses to sit upon the end of the bed behind him. His gaze pleads with Freddie's as his voice breaks completely. "...then why?"

Staggering as though he had been struck through the heart, which is true, Freddie wobbles to Brian's side and drops to his knees. His features are stricken. How could he have down this to his Brian? His musical soulmate, his soul brother? The words come into Freddie's mind unbidden with the weight of truth in them, along with other words that he remembers, he has got to. But he has to answer Brian now. 

And truthfully "I was lost," Freddie whispers. "I got lost in the dance, the clubs, the sound. You--you all have seemed... I thought you were drifting away from me," Freddie says. "You've both done solo albums, you and Roger-- and you're absolutely fantastic on them, darling. I thought, of course, you could go off on your own. That you don't need me. But Deaky... he does." Freddie bows his head, hands clenching and unclenching rapidly as he shakes. "I was wrong. Talking to Roger tonight, I realise precisely how wrong." Lifting dark eyes to Brian's, Freddie adds "...I actually thought you both--your distaste for disco had to do with _me_ because of where it's played. Where it's from." 

Brian stares, eyes wide, pulled out of his misery by confusion. "What are you talking about, Fred?" 

Freddie laughs. "You don't know?" He answers his own question as he sees the honest confusion in Brian's eyes. Dear naive Brian. It is that look that proves to him he'd been wrong, even before he continues "Because it's played in the haunts of homosexuals."

Recognition passes across Brian's face, then understanding, and the sharp sting of sorrow constricts the guitarist's chest. "Oh, Fred," he breathes, pulling the singer into his arms as Freddie shakes and judders as though not just his heart, but his very body could break. His dear, compassionate guitarist cannot stand that, even after everything. Bless him. "God," Brian raises teary eyes, not knowing what to say or do, but Freddie is clutching at him, his shirt and chest, and the hair of his moustache tickles Brian's cold skin as he whimpers.

"I was wrong, I've been hideous, and I'm so so sorry...," 

Brian is crying harder now. _Oh, Freddie. What have I done?_ He presses his lips to Freddie's hair and forehead, long hands cupping the other's cheeks and then stroking the back of his head, apologising as well without words. Things had gotten so screwed up on this damn album, it's like they had forgotten how to speak. But Freddie is his voice, always. "I've never wanted to leave you, or the band, Freddie," Brian promises with lips to his friend's skin. "Never once had the compunction. I need you. All of you." His voice cracks. "...I cannot bear to face this life alone."

Freddie sobs again, moving up and wrapping his arms even tighter around Brian, burying his head into the chest of his lanky friend. Brian shifts back, stretching out and pulling Freddie to lie in bed beside him. He holds on tight, running both hands in soothing circles across his friend's broad back until at last Freddie ceases shaking. His sobbing quiets too.

"Oh my dearest, sweetest Brian, I'm so sorry." _And oh, how much I love you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this chapter hurt a lot, I'm upset. But all the pairs have finally talked, now for a band meeting WITHOUT shouting
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	22. Chapter 22

Roger wakes up feeling half-dead and wishing he was all dead, as the pain in his head is doing its damnedest to fucking murder him. "Ugh, never again," he groans and squeaks and rolls over, burying his head in the fluffy depths of his pillow.

Freddie wakes up feeling warm and comfortable, safe. He blinks and inhales as light slants across his face in swirls and wavy patterns, which he recognises as a direct result of the ringlets of bouncing black hair that splay across his forehead and hang over his eyes from above the lean face that rests pressed on top of his, long cool arms draped around his body, keeping him close. Brian's face is calm and serene. Creases in the lean pale expanse of that face are smoothed out completely for the first time in months. Freddie snuggles down closer, burrowing into Brian's thin chest. 

Brian slowly blinks and exhales, long lashes fluttering as he stretches his neck and blinks again, rapidly this time. "Morning Fred," he whispers in that glorious gentle voice of his. Long fingers automatically rub Freddie's upper arm as agony shoots through Brian's gaze. "About last night--"

Freddie shakes his head, lifts his own fingers to cover Brian's lips. "Hush," he whispers. "Don't you dare tell me that you're sorry, my dearest. Not when I've been the one who was such a boor for such a long time." 

Brian's curls whisper against Freddie's skin as the guitarist shakes his head in shame. "But I've been an arse for so long--" 

"Time is but a paper moon, my darling, and you have always had our best interests at heart as a band. As a family," Freddie speaks softly, stroking Brian's cheek. "And that means more to me than any idiotic row." Brian's lips tremble. "Besides, we have Roger to be our true spitfire."

"... Somebody call my name?" A groan emanates from Brian's doorway, and Roger is hanging in it, being supported with John's wiry arm wrapped around his waist. Of course they knew to come, Brian thinks affectionately as the blond wavers. "Here's your other key back, Brian," the drummer tosses it onto Bri's table and flops onto his bed, soft face pale as death as he nudges himself into Freddie's side, seeing as that is where he'd landed. 

"You look death-warmed over, darling," the singer coos, stretching his fingers to run through Roger's hair. 

"Drink the entire contents of the pub, Roger?" Brian asks. "Obviously you learned nothing from my stint three days ago."

A muffled grumble rises from near Fred's midriff: "Sod off, Bri. No one bloody asked f' your opinion."

Brian laughs and looks at John, whose face crinkles into a fond smile as he shakes his head at the drummer. "That's our Roger," he intones before hesitantly shuffling close to the bed. The guitarist looks at him, eyes soft, and reaches out a hand, the other remaining wrapped around Freddie's solid shoulders. The bassist takes and returns Brian's grasp after a fleeting instant, allowing himself to be pulled into the bed and Bri's opposite side.

Roger shifts one bare arm to wrap around Deaky's legs as he sits and stretches, and Freddie beams round at his three boys. Brian relaxes into his pillows as he feels and sees them all here beside him. They know--even Roger in the state of his hangover--all look to each other and believe they can do this. Despite it all, everything that's happened between them, they are a family.

They still shall remain together, and together they will be all right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"Let us cling together as the years go by, oh my love, my love. In the quiet of the night let our candle always burn; let us never lose the lessons we have learned."_ These particular song lyrics are incredibly appropriate to this story, I think. This final chapter is one of the shorter ones, my loves, but I think it said all it needed to say. What do you think?
> 
> My immense thanks to Queen, and to all of you lovely readers, for being extraordinary. 
> 
> I plan to write much more about these lovely lads in future--they are nowhere close to being through with me ;)
> 
> Comments are appreciated, and thank you ever so much for reading <3

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this piece comes from 'Back Chat', a song on the _Hot Space_ album written by Mister John Richard Deacon


End file.
